


Victor the Great

by Multiple_Universes



Series: Peter the Great AU [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Fluff, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Peter the Great AU, Podium Family, Power Couple, Royal Wedding, book AU, royal traditional Russian wedding that is probably as historically accurate as it gets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 03:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 60,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12740541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multiple_Universes/pseuds/Multiple_Universes
Summary: At the age of nine Victor became the Tsar of all the Russias with Lilia as regent. One day he will be the sole ruler of Russia, the man who makes all the decisions and gets to do what he wants, with one exception: he has to marry a woman from a Russian aristocratic family. Except that he falls in love with a boy who is a foreign commoner. Will he risk the throne to be able to marry the one he loves?Based loosely on Peter the Great's life (with some tweaks made to history).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat loosely based on Peter the Great’s life. For simplicity’s sake, I tossed various facts out (it was either that or a history essay) and at some point (if I actually write it that far) I will just write whatever, ignoring history. So, if you’re thinking of going “wait! But this historic fact was like this, not like that!” You don’t need to say anything: I know.
> 
> The other disclaimer is that I had to keep looking up translations for different Russian words or names, so I apologize if some of them are wrong. I did my best, but if you find a mistake, please let me know and I’ll fix it.

The square was full of streltsy that morning, shouting, demanding, pushing everyone in the crowd around them. At first glance it looked like everyone out there was in the red kaftan so typical for the guardsmen of the Kremlin, but after a close study the eye would pick out the beggars mixed in among them.

“Streltsy!” one man shouted, climbing onto a roof and waving his hat for attention. “While you argue here like merchants squabbling over a kopek, they’ll kill the Tsar!”

Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich passed away that morning and the question of his successor now hung in the air. Next in line for the throne was young tsarevich Victor, barely old enough to understand what was happening. But would the power be in the hands of the boyars, the upper class of Russian society, or would his half-sister Lilia Alekseyevna be in power, therefore giving it to the rest of the family on her mother’s side?

“Streltsy!” the man yelled. “The Baranovskye already tried to poison him once! Will you really let them try it again?”

“Save the young Tsar!” someone yelled. “Save the Tsar!”

They ran, pushing people out of their way, trampling others underfoot.

 

In the Kremlin Lilia Baranovskaya stood before her stepmother as she shielded her son with her body. “Do you hear them out there? They have lost their minds! They think someone killed the young Tsar! Go out there with my brother and put their minds at ease or who knows what they will take it in their heads to do!”

“But I am afraid,” the poor woman admitted, trembling. “Those are not men out there, but beasts! In their madness they will kill poor Viten’ka.”

“Have courage, mother,” Lilia said.

She had taken to calling the old Tsarina mother, and the old Tsarina was sure that Lilia only did it to offend her.

Prince Fyodor Romodanovsky chose this moment to sweep into the room. He stopped, taking in the scene and then bowed respectfully. “I will come with you, sister,” he told the old Tsarina.

Suppressing a sigh and with a trembling heart, Victor’s mother took the young Tsar out by the hand to show to the crowd outside with Prince Romodanovsky by her side.

“Streltsy!” Prince Romodanovsky shouted in a loud voice that rolled over the crowd, making everyone stop talking to listen to what he had to say. “Who told you the Tsar is dead? Who lied to you? Victor Alexeyevich is here, in good health and high spirits!”

Victor stood by his mother’s side, his lips pursed and his eyes open wide from the fear. The Monomakh’s Cap on his head was just a little too big for his head and kept sliding down to his eyebrows no matter how many times he pushed it up off his brow.

His mother picked him up in her arms, not so much to show him to everyone below as to hold him close and be ready to carry him away at the first sign of danger.

The crowd roared with approval.

“Who will rule next?” someone yelled from the crowd. “We refuse to let the boyars do what they want! We want Victor on the throne!”

“Victor! Victor!” they chanted.

Victor trembled as his mother gripped him tighter to her chest.

“But he is a mere child!” someone shouted. “How can a child rule over us?”

“Then let Lilia rule for him until he comes of age!” someone suggested.

“Let Lilia rule!” more people yelled from the crowd.

The screams got louder, followed by insults.

One of the boyars ran out of the Kremlin to argue with them and the streltsy ran him through with their poleaxes. Terror and the desire for blood filled the air as someone screamed.

The old Tsarvena ran back inside with Victor in her arms, pressing his face against her shoulder so that he would not see what the streltsy were doing.

It was 1682 and Victor Alexeyevich, the new Tsar of all the Russias, was only nine years old, but he would remember that terrifying morning for the rest of his life.


	2. The Kukuy Quarter

The old Tsarina sat by the window and watched her son inspect the soldiers in front of him, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed like a general who was about to open his mouth and declare that never in his long life had he seen such a disgraceful bunch.

The soldiers lowered their eyes before the Tsar’s angry gaze. Strong middle-aged men paled under the demanding inspection of a fifteen-year-old youth.

Victor was tall, even awkwardly so. Over the previous summer his body grew until he was as high as the Kolomenskaya versta.

And all day long he’d have these games, month after month of marching and mock battles. The village of Preobrazhenskoye shook from the fights and yells of the men.

Why was he so restless? Where did he get all his energy from?

“Come rest a while,” she’d call. “Viten’ka, you don’t need to work so hard. Stay here by my side. Eat something, sleep.”

“I don’t have time, mother,” Victor would say, waving her off. “We need to build a fort. What news are there from Moscow?”

She would sigh and answer his questions as best as she could.

 _I need to find him a wife,_ she thought. _Maybe then he will calm down._

And, as always, she would drift off after that thought, her head resting on her hand, the heat lulling her to sleep.

She awoke with a jerk to discover that the field was empty. The soldiers, and, most importantly, Viten’ka were all gone.

The Tsarina got up from her spot and ran as fast as she could in her long and heavy clothes, her old legs barely strong enough to support her weight.

“Viten’ka! Where is Viten’ka?” she exclaimed.

She ran into a room where several nobles who were supposed to look after the Tsar sat on a bench by the wall and slept.

“How can you sit there sleeping when the Tsar is gone?” she demanded.

They jumped to their feet and ran as fast as they could to find Victor.

The Tsarina wrung her hands as she went down the hall. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to go looking for Victor, so she decided to spend the time until he returned on her knees praying that Viten’ka would be found soon and that he was safe.

The nobles ordered for their horses to be brought to them and set off together in a search for the Tsar. They started at the Yauza River where a group of men was unloading things from a boat.

“Have either of you seen the Tsar?” one of the nobles called out.

“We have!” one of the men answered. “His Majesty was rowing to the Kukuy Quarter when we saw him.”

At the mention of the Kukuy Quarter which was full of foreigners from many different countries, several people muttered curses under their breath.

What mad idea had drawn the Tsar of all the Russias there?

 

Tsar Victor Alexeyevich sat alone in his boat as he rowed it down the river to the wooden pier at the Kukuy Quarter.

A man stood out on the pier and watched the Tsar approach. He was dressed according to the latest fashions in France, in a coat with long tails and big sleeves despite how warm the day was. He held a cane in his hand and wore a wig of long curly hair on his head. He bowed respectfully to Victor, addressing him by his title and then reached out to catch the boat.

Victor rose to his feet and stepped off onto the pier, not bothering to take the man’s help.

“It is a great honour to meet Your Majesty,” the man said with another bow. “My name is Celestino Cialdini,” he introduced himself. “If you would do us the honour of paying us a visit, Your Majesty, I will show you the flour mills we have here as well as many other curious things. We have, among other things, a box that plays music when you open it. Will you permit me to show you this, Your Majesty?” He bowed again.

“Show me,” Victor said with a nod.

A song reached their ears and Victor turned, searching around with his eyes to see where the singing was coming from. Several seconds of looking along the river and listening carefully told him that the sound was reaching them from a place further up the river hidden by a small wood from view.

Celestino opened his mouth, but Victor held up his hand to silence him. With long, quick strides he headed for the wood. He stepped around several trees to find a young man sitting on a bench by the river, playing the lute and singing to an older man who resembled him so much he could only have been his father.

The father listened with his head bent forward and a smile on his face as tears flowed from his eyes.

It was a sad song that struck right to the heart, even if the listener, like the Tsar, could not understand the language.

Victor watched with his mouth slightly open. Something warm flowed through him, making his heart beat faster and his face feel like it was burning. He wanted to walk up to them and say something clever that would get the young man to stare at him in admiration. He wished he could be as elegant as all the foreigners here – no, more than them – and not awkward in his kaftan for informal royal visits, in his tall boots and his red hat. He hated all of the old, bulky clothing and traditions his country had given him. He longed for the new and fascinating things these foreigners had.

But no, he would only make a fool of himself. With great difficulty, he wrenched himself away from this scene and walked back the way Celestino had directed him.

“He is a very well brought up young man,” Celestino told Victor whose heart was still beating madly with each note that reached his ears. “The people in the Kukuy Quarter are all very fond of him.”

Victor stepped into the quarter with Celestino at his side. The cobblestone streets were clean as if someone had just swept them. The houses were neat with flower pots at the windows. People sat in benches outside their houses and watched others walk by, greeting them with a polite smile.

When Victor passed by them they rose to their feet and bowed respectfully.

All of this was plunging him deeper and deeper into melancholy thoughts.

He remembered Moscow with its dirt and wooden houses. One little fire and the whole city burned to the ground before anyone could think of what to do.

He thought of his people, imagining a rude, awkward, fat, lazy man with all the grace of a wild bear out in a forest. How could he get them to be like this? How could he teach them things these people understood without anyone having to sit them down to explain it to them? How could he make them learn all of this when he himself was not like this at all?

He sighed and the frown on his face deepened.

Celestino was happy to show him everything. He made jokes and told amusing stories. He spoke with a strong Italian accent that made his words difficult to understand, but Victor listened nonetheless, because he found everything the man said very interesting. Sometimes Celestino didn’t know the right Russian word to use and he’d hunt around for it before throwing in an Italian one and continuing on in Russian.

Celestino had come with the hopes of joining the Russian army only to be turned down and sent off to the Kukuy Quarter. He made light of the life of foreigners here, but Victor suspected that many of them, including Celestino found it hard to be away from their homes. They’d made new homes here, but Victor knew in his heart that they were poor copies of the originals.

He thought back to the young man with the lute. His song had been sad, as if he’d been lamenting his lost home.

Maybe he was, Victor thought, but said nothing about it.

He studied their neat little lives with all their little joys and hardships. In that moment he was ready to trade his crown for a piece of what they had, for the chance to sit by the river and listen to the young man’s song. To have a mill of his own and be free to do anything. To not have to deal with royal duties or go on royal visits. To be like these people and visit their houses like a friendly neighbour who was one of them, not an astonished monarch.

He shook his thoughts off, remembering the aim of his visit and kept his eyes open as he did his best to see everything he could.

The last curiosity he was shown was the music box.

As soon as he stepped inside the house of the lucky owner of the music box he found the young man who’d sung so beautifully before.

“Allow me to introduce Yuuri Katsuki,” Celestino said and the young man bowed.

Victor nodded in return.

“His Majesty the Tsar of all the Russias,” Celestino went on.

Yuuri bowed again.

Victor stared at him, unable to tear his eyes away. He could feel the blood flow to his face.

Yuuri raised his eyes to his face and then lowered them again and he, too, blushed.

“These are his parents, Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki,” Celestino continued with the introductions, as if he couldn’t see that the Tsar’s mind was elsewhere.

“Here is the music box,” someone said.

Victor forced himself to look.

It really was impressive. When someone opened the lid music would begin to play.

Victor reached out and took it. “Amazing!” he exclaimed, temporarily forgetting his embarrassment at the sight of Yuuri. “Open it up! I want to see how it works!”

There was a silence at those words. No one moved to do what he’d ordered.

He looked around the room and saw by their faces that he’d said something wrong. Even Celestino didn’t look pleased. Yuuri’s parents exchanged a look.

And then Yuuri stepped forward and Victor handed him the box without another word, expecting him to open it.

“If you please, Your Majesty, I can play music too, but if you were to open me up to see how I worked, I’m afraid my heart would give out and I would never play music again.”

His face turned redder and he ran out of the room before anyone could say anything else.

It was down to Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki to entertain His Majesty for the rest of the evening.

They’d come to Russia a long time ago, before Yuuri was born. They’d grown up here in the Kukuy Quarter, and fallen in love here, and married here. And gave birth to Yuuri here.

Victor’s visit ended not long after that. He left their house, lost deep in thought, not even paying attention to what Celestino was telling him this time.

When he returned to the Yauza River he saw a boat with the nobles sent by his mother to find him. The Tsar sighed and looked back at the Kukuy Quarter. He imagined he could hear Yuuri singing and wished he’d been born here, among these kind and interesting people.

“Your Majesty!” the nobles called out and bowed, nearly turning the boat over as they did so. “The Tsarina is looking for you.”

Victor suppressed a laugh at their awkward attempts to keep the boat upright. Then he turned to look at Celestino. “I want you to think of me as your friend,” he said. “Please don’t address me as Your Majesty. Address me as you would your friend.”

Celestino smiled. “Then I will call you Herr Victor.”

With a satisfied smile Victor returned to his boat and rowed back, ignoring the nobles who struggled to catch up with him.

He didn’t think about his mother who was ill with worry, or of his half-sister who was probably plotting something against him, and not even of his country. His thoughts kept returning to Yuuri Katsuki and when he could return to the Kukuy Quarter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to be historically accurate, then all of the foreigners in the Kukuy Quarter were actually from Western Europe, but we're going to ignore that here. And don't get me started on Japan and foreign countries in that time period.
> 
> The other thing that really messes with the naming of things is that all of these places are now part of Moscow, but back then were treated like separate villages (as I understand it, anyway).
> 
> I don't know if anyone cares for who takes whose role, but Celestino gets to be Franz Lefort while Yuuri, naturally, ends up in Anna Mons's place.


	3. Marriage

Two days prior to the Tsar’s first visit to the Kukuy Quarter Yuuri Katsuki saw him. He sat by the window, looking out at the Yauza River, lost deep in thought when a figure caught his eye.

A young man was rowing a boat down the river. He was in a white shirt, the sleeves of which he’d rolled up to his elbows. Yuuri stared at the muscles on his forearms as a blush crept up to his cheeks. The man in the boat was blonde-haired and really tall, almost impossibly tall.

And then a second boat appeared, following the first one. The people on it shouted something to the man in the first boat and he stopped rowing to frown at them.

Yuuri wondered why the second boat was chasing the first one.

The young man let his pursuers catch up with him. He listened to their words and then told them to leave him alone.

They protested strongly at this, but the man didn’t even bother to listen. He resumed rowing with a smile on his face.

Yuuri didn’t get to see how the chase ended, because at that moment his mother entered the room to tell him that someone had arrived to see him.

There were always young men and women visiting Yuuri’s house. They would sit next to Yuuri and sigh and then they would go on in the most boring way imaginable about the city where they’d been born (even if they didn’t remember it very well). They talked about flour mills or watchmaking and then they would leave, making Yuuri feel as if they’d wanted something, but couldn’t say directly what it was.

He was the most beautiful man in Kukuy Quarter, and yet, the real reason for all of these visits never even occurred to him.

Yuuri marvelled at how considerate it was of all of them to come and enquire after his health. He wished he could find the courage to return this attention, but instead he stayed at home and did not visit anyone.

“We should find someone for Yuuri. That young man who visited yesterday would make the perfect match for him, I’m sure of it,” Toshiya said to his wife.

Hiroko sighed. “They grow up so fast! Mari was already married by fourteen, but Yuuri is too shy to approach anyone. I’ll talk to that young man’s mother.”

Hiroko didn’t know what to do about Yuuri. With every year he only became more attractive, reminding Hiroko of Toshiya when he was younger. When she saw how many people came to try and win his affections her heart filled with a mother’s pride. But he was too shy to encourage someone’s advances and this frightened people off when they mistook his shyness for coldness.

It was up to her to make sure her son would be happy and she did not hesitate to do her best.

And just as she thought she had everything arranged for Yuuri, just as she thought she’d found the perfect man to make him happy the Tsar of all the Russias honoured their house with a visit and honoured her son with capturing his heart.

She watched Yuuri’s face as he stood by the window and watered the geraniums. He would raise his eyes from time to time, as if waiting for him to return. He would spend the whole day finding excuses to stay near the window that looked out over the Yauza River.

Maybe the Tsar was a great man and maybe he would make a perfect husband (she had no way of judging that yet), but…

She turned away as Yuuri’s face reddened.

But they were foreigners in a country the customs of which were completely unknown to them.

The Tsar returned the next day, and the day after that, and every day for a whole week after that and Hiroko wished there was something she could do.

But it was already too late.

 

When Victor next returned to the Kukuy Quarter the first person he saw was Yuuri himself, standing at the window and watering the geraniums on the windowsill. Victor paused to enjoy the image of Yuuri’s graceful figure bathing in the soft sunlight, his eyes lowered and just the hint of a smile on his face.

He was _bewitching_. Victor’s heart trembled as mad words rose to his lips.

And then the spell was broken. Yuuri raised his eyes, saw Victor and dropped his watering can before rushing out of Victor’s sight.

Victor stepped inside where the whole family greeted him. He was invited to lunch and accepted, but he didn’t eat anything, preferring to watch Yuuri instead.

He’d spent the afternoon lying on his back in his boat, thinking of Yuuri and here he was in the flesh before him now. Victor shifted closer in his chair.

They brought out the music box for him again, but he wasn’t as interested in it as he’d been the first time. He asked them questions about their life here, his eyes still on Yuuri. The boy let his parents speak, barely uttering a word.

This didn’t please Victor at all, who’d wanted a chance to get to know Yuuri better.

“You told me you could play music, Yuuri,” Victor said. “I wish to hear you play.” He couldn’t help the hint of an order that entered his voice.

But Yuuri didn’t seem to notice it.

They brought out a lute for him to play and Yuuri sang, stumbling over words and messing up the melody. But when he finished Victor complimented him nonetheless and demanded to know what the song had been about.

“It’s about love,” Yuuri said and blushed deeper.

Victor wanted to reach out and take his hand, but stupid thoughts kept coming into his head. For some reason he thought of his mother and his people. Suddenly he thought of his country, but not with the usual mix of anger and frustration he felt, but with a kind of fondness.

He rose to his feet, bid everyone a good evening, kissed Yuuri’s hand and left.

Yuuri’s voice rang in his ears the whole way back. He thought of his singing and of the way his finger moved over the strings of his lute as he climbed out of his boat and returned to his mother’s side.

“Viten’ka,” she greeted him with a happy smile and he let her embrace him. “Viten’ka.” She pulled away to look into his face with a big smile. “Sit down. Hear me out.”

He sat down by her side. “What is it, mother?”

“I want you to get married,” she said and smiled wider, as if she’d just delivered great news.

“What?” Victor jumped to his feet. “Married?” For some reason, he imagined Yuuri’s face and blushed at the thought.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she told him. “There is no need to go around, looking for someone. I found you the perfect match.”

“You did?”

“Yes. She is the most perfect woman in the world: as graceful as a swan and as beautiful. She will make you a perfect wife, I am sure of it,” she nodded as she spoke, looking into his eyes, as if eager to see his reaction. How could she not see that he wasn’t pleased by what she’d done?

“I have no time for this,” Victor said, preparing to walk away.

“Yakov went off to war today,” she said and watched his reaction.

Victor tensed.

“Do I need to explain anything to you, Victor?” she asked. “The people will look at you and they will look at Lilia and wonder who they want to rule over them. If that lover of hers, that _Yakov_ , returns with a victory from the war, it will be seen as _her_ victory. Who will care then for a Tsar who runs around with foreigners and plays games all day long?”

Anger bubbled in Victor’s chest and he turned away from her, doing his best to suppress his emotions.

The Tsarina rose from her seat and walked up to him. “Viten’ka,” she brushed her hand over his shoulder, “the people want a serious Tsar, one who shows that he cares about their well-being and the future of his country. A future that includes _an heir_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, one of the big historic inaccuracies in this AU: same-sex marriage is normal and acceptable. Except if you’re the Tsar.  
> I also realized that with the War and Peace AU preview I posted yesterday and with this fic I updated today all I need to do is write an AU based on Prince Serebrenni/The Silver Prince/The Silver Knight (depending on the translation you get) and I will have a trio of AUs based on novels by different authors all with the last name Tolstoy. I doubt I will write this AU, but who knows? Three different periods of Russian history... who doesn't want to write/read about that?


	4. Lilia’s Favourite

Prince Yakov walked into the room to find Tsarevna Lilia sitting at a table, lost deep in thought. Her thick black hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in long strands, which partially covered her face and hid her expression from Yakov.

Yakov was young and hot-blooded. He had slipped into Lilia’s life and won her over. He was handsome, well built and he had caught the eye of several people in the court, but he had avoided all of them, making his way straight to the throne without a single hesitation.

The Tsarevna was getting close to that age when time was about to take everything away. But until that sad hour came her beauty was in full bloom, attracting the attention of many ambitious young men. She had enjoyed Yakov’s attentions and did not give in right away, amused at his efforts to win her over.

Lover, they all called him. It was a word that carried all kinds of unpleasant meanings and, so Lilia, used people she trusted to encourage everyone to use a new word that, they said, was popular in the court of the French King: favourite.

Yakov was Lilia’s favourite.

That morning Yakov was dressed in foreign clothes, in a coat that Lilia mentally compared to a dress. The sleeves of his blouse ended in delicate white lace that peeked out from the sleeves of his coat. They were the clothes of someone who lay in a chair all day and not a warrior who went out to battle.

She pretended that she had not seen him come in and kept her eyes lowered, as if she was praying.

Yakov walked up to her, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her head. A warmth spread through her chest and she smiled, but only while her head was lowered so that he would not see how pleased she was. When she raised her head the smile was gone.

“Save me from sin,” she whispered, as if at a confession. “I have had nothing but terrible thoughts all morning.”

Yakov said nothing.

“I cannot stop,” she whispered hurriedly, looking away and turning pale in fear. “I do not want these thoughts. I cannot help them. I keep…” she hesitated.

Was anyone listening? Did she dare say what was in her mind aloud? Would someone hear her if she did?

“I keep thinking about death,” she finally admitted. She shuddered and crossed herself several times. “I keep thinking about _his_ death. Save me,” she pleaded and raised her eyes. “What do I do? They say he spends all his hours with foreigners and playing silly games like a child.”

“Then let him,” Yakov mumbled.

Lilia lowered her head and whispered. “They say he has fallen in love with a commoner. _A boy_.”

Yakov was quiet. He leaned down over Lilia, as if to whisper something into her ear, but he stepped away without saying a single word.

Lilia watched him walk to the other side of the room with a frown on his face and then came back, still not uttering a single word. Her heart beat faster in her chest.

She wanted power. She wanted to sit on the throne and rule. Possibly with Yakov at her side, but never more than her consort. But what if the price for that power was murder? What then? Could she do it? And if she did, would she be able to live with herself afterwards? Could she make up for her great sin?

“I have been thinking about the way we do things,” Yakov began, changing the subject. “Do you ever think how wrong we all are? Look at Europe! Look at the way they run their countries.”

Lilia turned away. She was not in the right mood for this conversation.

“But we can’t just take what they have and bring it here,” Yakov went on. “The people need to change. It’s all… wrong.” He stood there, with a thoughtful expression on his face, talking about the proper way to run a country as if he’d sat down and analyzed everything (which, knowing him, he might have done) and was now presenting it to Lilia, talking to her like an equal. Like a person who was sharing power with her.

She rose slowly to her feet. “These are my people. I make do with what I have and I suggest that you do the same. These foreign ideas might appeal to you, but they are of no use to me. I promised the Polish king that I would help him in his war and I want _you_ to lead our men.” She saw the expression on his face and straightened up indignantly. “If you return victorious, I will get everything I want, if you lose…”

She turned away and walked out of the room, leaving the sentence unfinished.

 

Victor ran out of the room as soon as his mother finished talking. Staying any longer meant telling her what he thought of all of this from what he thought of his country’s traditions to what he thought of its people and he was sure that he would use the kind of words a Tsar was not supposed to know.

He stormed into his room, doing his best to keep his emotions in check. He closed the door and leaned against it.

He knew what she meant. Nothing made things worse for a country than the question of who would be the next on the throne. His life so far had been proof enough of that. But to marry a woman he did not care for!

He bit his lips angrily. There was just the beginning of a moustache beginning to grow on his face, proof that he was entering the age where he was no longer a child. No longer someone who had to do what others said he had to.

He was a Tsar and he was damned if he was going to follow someone else’s orders!

He thought of the Kukuy Quarter, of the foreigners with their ordered streets and ordered lives. He thought of their kind smiles and how polite they were. He thought of how, when entering a house, they asked after the health of everyone living in it. He thought of their elegance and their good manners. He thought of their craftsmen who made incredible things.

_I want that. I want all of that. I want to live surrounded by people like that. I want grand palaces and elegant things. No, I want more than that. I want European kings to look at me and feel jealous. How can I think about marriage when there is so much to do to get what I want?_

An image presented itself to his mind. It was of Yuuri watering the geraniums outside his window with a peaceful smile on his face. He raised one graceful hand to hold his sleeve so that it would not get in his way. The wind played with his hair and the sun illuminated his face, making it glow.

He felt his heart pound against his ribs as if begging to be let out so it could join Yuuri. Something was burning inside him, filling him up with strange thoughts he had never had before.

He imagined sitting in a chair by the fire and watching Yuuri sit across from him. He remembered the way Yuuri’s eyes shone when he smiled, or his endearing accent when he spoke Russian. He thought of the little things he could do to make Yuuri happy and…

It was no use.

Just when he was finally happy the image of his half-sister appeared before his eyes, dark and threatening, shattering all images of happiness his mind could conjure for him.

They kept telling him that she wanted him dead. He heard stories of food appearing out of nowhere full of poison, of suspicious barrels of beer that someone drank from before dying, of dogs that ate this food on a whim and then died.

Fear squeezed his heart. Would he die just like that one day? Without having done a single thing?

And then fear gave way to anger.

“Sister?” he muttered. “More like a poisonous snake!”

He refused to be shut in, trembling in fear like a child. He did not want someone to protect them. He was strong enough to protect himself. He ran back outside, heading straight for the Yauza River without stopping to think, ready to jump into his boat and row like mad.

A familiar figure caught his eye and he saw Celestino strolling towards his soldiers as casually as if he was out in one of the streets of the Kukuy Quarter.

Victor stopped running, straightened up indignantly and strode over to see what he would say and do.

Everyone bowed at the sight of the Tsar approaching and Victor barely bothered to acknowledge their greetings. There was something far more important waiting for him.

“Forgive me, Herr Victor,” Celestino said, stepping up close to Victor and dropping his voice, “but it would appear that the dust out here is disagreeable to your eyes.”

Victor flushed, realizing that Celestino was telling him that his eyes were red. As if he had cried! As if the Tsar would cry like a little baby!

He opened his mouth to say something sharp and noticed the smile on Celestino’s face.

“Will you walk with me a while, Herr Victor?” Celestino asked, making an inviting gesture with his arm.

Victor bit back his first response and gave a nod.

They walked among the soldiers as they ran around in a mock battle for Victor’s benefit.

“I really like what you are doing, Herr Victor,” Celestino began. “A powerful Tsar needs a powerful army.”

Victor watched his face to see if he was serious.

“But a wise Tsar needs to know when to use his army.”

He nodded. There was nothing new for him there. It was a lesson he had heard many times before.

“And not just his army,” Celestino went on, getting really enthusiastic now. “The French King will eat in the house of his enemy or even behead an aristocrat, if it gets him what he wants. This is wisdom. This is what the French call politique.” He smiled.

Victor was lost in thought.

“There is a lot to be learned from watching others,” Celestino went on. “There is nothing wrong with doing things differently, but sometimes it also helps to understand why things are done the way they are.” He smiled. “These are just my thoughts, Herr Victor.”

Still Victor said nothing.

They walked around in a circle, as if they were just two friends out for a stroll as Celestino told Victor what he’d seen when he visited the court of the French king. Victor listened eagerly, committing every detail to memory.

At the end of Celestino’s story Victor thanked him and headed back into his palace.

He found his mother in her usual spot by the window.

“I _will_ get married, mother,” he said, after greeting her with cold politeness, “but I need more time.”

“For what, Viten’ka?” she asked, opening her eyes wide in surprise.

Lying was bad, he told himself, especially when it was a lie told to his mother, but what other choice did he have? “I will find someone who suits me myself.”

“Viten’ka!” she exclaimed. “Do you not trust your own mother’s choice?”

“I trust your choice, mother, but…” he paused, “I need someone with…” he searched around for the right word, “…the right connections.” He held his breath and waited for her to protest at this.

She stared at him as if he had just insulted her. “The wife I picked for you comes from an old family that has many ties to other aristocratic families. Why would I chose any different?”

Again he thought of Yuuri. The thought just would not leave him alone. What would he think if Victor got married to someone else?

It did not matter. He was not going to get married to someone else.

“She is not good enough,” Victor insisted. “Find me someone better.” He spun around and walked out, not even giving his mother a chance to point out that he did not know anything about the wife she had picked for him.

 

Yakov got on his horse and threw one last look at Lilia’s window. Would she come out to say goodbye? He was about to go to war. Who knew what could happen? Would she not give him a smile, or even just a look to show that she was grateful for what he was doing?

But no, the window remained empty and she did not come.

He scowled at the uncomfortable clothing he was wearing and then at the awkward figures of the men who were going with him.

He remembered Lilia confessing that she kept thinking about Victor’s death and shuddered. Was there any other way to get him out of his way? He was as ambitious as Lilia and knew that Victor will take the throne as soon as the law considered him old enough to do it.

Several years had passed since he had last seen the Tsar. They said he was much taller now, but Yakov struggled to imagine it. In his mind, Victor was still the young Tsarevich running around the Kremlin with a big smile on his face, his long blond hair streaming in the air behind him. To kill him…

He turned away and marched off to war to kill others instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through writing this chapter I got the song "History Maker" stuck in my head. I feel like it applies nicely to this AU as well...
> 
> A note on Yakov's title here: he's not a member of the royal family in this AU. In terms of titles, it's a title above that of Duke and in Russian it's called Knyaz, but someone decided that the English word for it is prince, which is the same as word as the prince who is the son of a King and a Queen (I bet they did this just to mess with writers haha). At least in this AU, the members of the royal family (or the Russian one anyway, you wait until we get more monarchs on the scene, oh god) have the following titles: Tsar, Tsarevna, Tsarina/Tsaritsa and Tsarevich. I hope that doesn't confuse anyone. I apologize in advance if it does.


	5. The Ball

An invitation arrived, drawn up by Yuuri’s own hand. It asked for the great honour of the Tsar’s presence. When read downwards, the first letter of each line formed the phrase “Herr Victor”.

The Tsar locked himself away to look at it and then, throwing an anxious look around the empty room, raised it to his lips.

Victor ordered foreign clothes to be made for him. He ordered them from the best tailor in the Kukuy Quarter. They arrived just in time for the ball. The Tsar strolled around in them, full of confidence, a satisfied smile playing on his face.

The forest green of his coat suited him well. He could almost have been mistaken for just another foreigner who lived in the Kukuy Quarter, if it hadn’t have been for his incredible height that, like always, gave him away. When alone he had practiced strolling around in his new clothes and new shoes. He had even found a mirror to practice in front of (something he would never have admitted to, even under pain of death).

He gave a friendly smile and a nod to everyone he passed on his way to the Kukuy Quarter. Even his own people who he usually turned away from in disgust got a smile from His Majesty. A whisper spread that evening that the Tsar was in a good mood and everyone knew what that meant.

The Kukuy Quarter was decorated brightly with ribbons and flowers. Tables had been brought outside and loaded with food. People went back and forth, carrying trays that were filled to the point of overflowing. Delicious smells mixed in the air with the smells of that warm summer evening, making heads spin and mouths water.

Celestino greeted Victor happily. “Herr Victor, thank you for coming to our little celebration. If you would care to sit right here,” he offered a place at the head of the biggest table. “And I will do my best to explain what we have prepared for you today.”

Each dish came with a name and a story. Victor had before him dishes from several different countries. Once they got to the dish from Japan his eyes sought out Yuuri. The boy sat further down the table and this didn’t please Victor at all.

“Yuuri,” Celestino said, walking over to the boy, “Herr Victor wishes to know more about the dish your family made.”

Yuuri rose to his feet, blushing slightly and followed Celestino back to the Tsar. As he explained about the dish, Celestino offered him a seat next to Victor as casually as if it was no big matter.

Victor watched the boy sit down. He was dressed in a foreign way Victor had never seen before and had no name for. The fabric had a beautiful pattern in all kinds of colours. It showed birds flying across a blue sky. Victor tore his eyes away reluctantly. He wished he could reach out and touch it, but something told him it was a bad idea.

“Katsudon,” Victor repeated the name once Yuuri finished explaining what the dish was. He questioned the boy further: how was it eaten? When was it eaten?

Here was his chance to draw Yuuri out and get him to speak and he was making as much use of it as he could.

They were well into their meal when someone arrived with a bottle of wine and presented it to Celestino.

“Here is our finest wine, Herr Victor,” he said with a smile and poured Victor a full cup. “Tonight,” he said, rising to his feet, “we drink to Herr Victor’s health.”

The guests, including Yuuri, raised their glasses to toast the Tsar’s health.

Victor caught Yuuri’s eye before downing his drink.

It was delicious and like nothing he’d ever had before. He asked for more with a smile.

Three cups later the world was warm and wonderful and he forgot all about dirty, wooden Moscow with Lilia sitting at the very heart of it.

The foreigners split into pairs and started to dance in the area cleared for them in the middle of all the tables. Victor sat next to Yuuri and watched the boy smile at the dancers.

The world was full of wonderful and fascinating things. There was so much beauty out there. He felt like a bird ready for flight.

Yuuri shifted closer to him and said with a smile, “There will be fireworks soon.”

A loud bang made him jump and then he looked up into the sky, where dozens of sparkles spread above them, painting giant flowers in the heavens. Red, white, green and blue sparkles danced in the air.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Yuuri whispered. His eyes were glowing and his face was slightly pink.

“You are…” Victor whispered back.

Yuuri didn’t seem to notice his slip and kept smiling.

They watched the fireworks spread above their heads. Yuuri’s hand was warm on his arm, his shoulder pressed slightly against Victor’s. The moment stretched out forever and then it was over.

The fireworks were no more.

Yuuri rose to his feet and held out his hands. “Dance with me, Your Majesty.”

“I can’t,” he said, worrying how he would look among the graceful figures slipping through the air and around each other.

“Herr Victor,” Celestino boomed, appearing at his side, with an elderly lady next to him, “will you join the dance?”

Victor rose, unable to decline an invitation a second time.

Celestino presented Victor to the elderly lady and she curtsied with her head lowered. Victor understood and invited her to be his partner. Celestino joined him with Yuuri by his side.

Victor’s eyes were on Yuuri as he led his partner to the rest of the dancers. They stopped next to each other and the dance began.

He had to keep his attention on his partner to avoid treading on her dress, but still his eyes were drawn to Yuuri.

They lit candles all around them and their light slipped over Yuuri’s figure and reflected in his hair.

“And now the dancers switch partners!” Celestino announced happily.

And Victor found himself with Yuuri in his arms. The boy looked into his face timidly, his cheeks still glowing from the wine. He placed his hand carefully in Victor’s and the Tsar felt his heart hammer faster.

The music played and Yuuri turned around. Victor’s breath caught in his throat as he admired the back of the boy’s neck where his hair ended and then the boy turned back around and smiled wider. Victor’s heart sang softly, drowned out by the music, but he knew what it sang to him about.

Yuuri was a little closer now and Victor didn’t dare touch more than his hands. He followed the boy’s lead without thinking, as if under a spell.

“You’re a wonderful dancer, Your Majesty,” Yuuri whispered.

“Please…” Victor whispered hoarsely, the word sounding strange on his lips, “just call me Victor.”

He got a smile in response and couldn’t feel his feet under him.

They stopped and only then did Victor notice that the music had ended. The dancers cheered happily and shouted to the band to play something else.

“Will you dance with me again, Victor?”

Victor leaned in close, pressing his lips against Yuuri’s. His hands were on Yuuri’s arms now and he felt the boy tremble like a leaf in a sudden breeze and then pull away.

He gave him a terror-filled look and ran.

Victor stumbled several steps after him and stopped, frowning, biting his lips angrily, wondering what he’d done wrong.

Celestino bounded up to him, but Victor waved him away and walked off, muttering curses under his breath.

He’d been so foolish. What was he thinking?

A figure slipped out of the trees and blocked his way. “I know where he went,” the stranger offered. “I can take you to him.”

Victor waved the offer away angrily.

“He didn’t go home,” the stranger went on.

Where did he go, then? Jealousy stung Victor and whispered into his ear about someone else, someone he didn’t know about.

“Take me to him,” Victor ordered and followed the stranger.

He didn’t think about how dark it was. He forgot he was the Tsar and that, in that moment, he was entirely at the stranger’s mercy. He followed, expecting to be led to Yuuri.

The stranger led him through the Kukuy Quarter and then through a small wood towards the river. He stopped a few steps away from the water and held a finger up to his lips. “He’s over there,” the stranger whispered.

Victor’s head spun. There was a mad ringing in his ears and he bounded past the strange man and right to the water.

Moonlight shone down on the river, dissolving into a million white sparkles that danced on the surface. It fell on a lonely figure sitting by the water with his head lowered.

Victor froze, but it was too late: he’d been too loud.

Yuuri raised his eyes and turned. “Who’s there?” he asked.

There was so much pain in his voice that Victor moved without thinking. He was by the boy’s side in a matter of steps. “It’s me.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Yuuri said and rose to his feet. He bowed respectfully and Victor could feel how cold and distant he suddenly was. The warmth that had been present throughout their dance was gone.

He wanted to take the boy’s hands and ask him to call him by his name. He wanted to hear Yuuri call him “Victor” again. “Something is distressing you,” he said and felt foolish again.

“It’s late and I’m tired,” Yuuri said, stepping away.

It was a hint that Yuuri wanted him to leave. He didn’t want to see him.

Victor stepped away. He’d never been cold like this before and Victor wanted to know what was different now. Had he really offended the boy that much with his kiss?

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he said, his voice shaking. “If I disgust you so much, I will never trouble you again.”

He turned to go but Yuuri caught him by the hand. “Forgive me,” he said quietly.

Victor didn’t bother to turn around and face him. “There is no need to apologize. You don’t need to force yourself to like me because I am the Tsar.” He hadn’t meant to put so much frustration into his tone of voice, but it wasn’t easy to keep his feelings in check.

Yuuri released him and stepped away.

And a third figure slipped out of the shadows. “Oh, _please_!” It was the stranger from before. “If you don’t tell him, Yuuri, then I will.”

Victor looked at Yuuri. “Tell me what?”

“Yuuri had a messenger this morning,” the stranger said and paused, as if waiting for Yuuri to continue.

Victor watched Yuuri’s face, trying to guess the expression there. Moonlight bathed the trees, throwing shadows over the three of them and Yuuri stood almost completely in one of those shadows. Victor was in the light. He turned his head and saw the stranger step out into the light to join him.

They waited for Yuuri to say something, but he remained silent.

“He was told what would happen if he responded to your advances, Your Majesty,” the stranger concluded.

Victor restrained the shout that rose to his throat. _They dare to threaten Yuuri because of me!_ “Who was it?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” the stranger lied.

Victor reached out and caught Yuuri’s hand. “ _I_ am the Tsar!” he exclaimed, “and I will not suffer someone telling me what to do!”

Yuuri raised his eyes and looked at him. “I do not fear for myself,” he said in a voice that made Victor’s heart tremble, “but for my poor parents.”

He straightened up then, as if issuing a challenge. And he shone. In that small wood, on that warm summer night, Yuuri glowed, or so it seemed to Victor’s eyes.

Victor himself was ready to throw his entire country, unworthy though it was, to Yuuri’s feet.

He must’ve guessed what Victor was thinking, because his expression dissolved in a smile, before becoming serious again. “I promise I will never marry anyone,” he said.

“…else,” Victor completed for him and watched the blush spread over Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri lowered his eyes.

Victor embraced him, clutching the boy to his heart. “Wait for me,” he whispered into Yuuri’s ear. “One day I will be able to do anything I want. Promise you’ll wait for me.”

Yuuri nodded and a tremor passed over his whole body.

Victor pulled away abruptly. He called the stranger over. “You, over there! You’ve done me a great service. I wish for you to accompany Yuuri back home and then return to me.”

The stranger stepped towards them with a smile on his face.

“I want Yuuri to be safe.” Victor looked into Yuuri’s eyes as he held the boy’s hand. “Take him back, but make sure no one sees the two of you together. What is your name?”

The stranger bowed. “Christophe Giacometti.”


	6. Tears

Ever since Christophe returned to Victor’s side that evening he never left. At first everyone thought he’d be the royal jester with all the jokes he made. Often he was the only person who could bring a smile to His Majesty’s face. Victor was greatly fond of him and called him Chris, instead of using his full name. In return, Chris called him Herr Victor, like so many other foreigners Victor considered his friends did. They were inseparable. They went from playing soldiers to visiting the Kukuy Quarter and getting madly drunk.

But Chris wasn’t just a drunk with a good sense of humour, he also had a clever head on his shoulders. Often when Victor and the generals of his toy army got together, trying to decide which battle to fight next, or trying to figure out how such and such a mock battle could be won he’d slip in among them and say something like:

“That’s easy. Just do this.”

And often everyone would agree that it was the right thing to do.

Victor sent Chris with letters to the Kukuy Quarter. Every time he was expected to return with answers from Yuuri.

Victor’s writing was messy and Chris was always ready to interpret any word which was illegible, while Yuuri’s writing was always neat and correct.

The boy would seal his envelopes and entrust them with a blush to Chris, asking him to make sure that only the Tsar would read them. He didn’t know that Victor would often stay up late, reading the letters out loud in a fascinated whisper with Chris in the room, exclaiming “How does he know how to write like this? How can he say it so well? This is exactly how I feel too!”

They were innocent letters that spoke of a young love that barely knew anything of the world. Sometimes Yuuri would enclose a dried flower from the garden behind his house inside the letter and Victor would run around the next day with it in his inside pocket.

Celestino saw the influence Chris was gaining over the Tsar and the two of them became close friends as well, preferring to be allies rather than rivals. They often discussed Victor’s affairs among themselves, both interested in seeing him as the sole ruler of all the Russias.

They both knew that the uncertainty between him and Lilia couldn’t go on forever.

Yakov wasn’t having any success in the war, but Lilia would try anything to hold on to power and so Victor had to do something to wrench power out of her hands once and for all. But what?

“He needs to marry,” Celestino said one evening when they were alone together. “He needs to find a Russian noblewoman and marry her. And she needs to give him an heir, then the people will see him as the rightful Tsar.”

“But what about Yuuri?” Chris asked.

“Every great ruler had lovers, despite being married. Political marriage has nothing at all to do with love. Look at the French King. He may be married, but that hasn’t stopped him from having at least a dozen lovers already!”

Chris shook his head. He understood the Tsar’s heart far better than Celestino did. “He will never agree to that.”

“He must see that marrying Yuuri is madness,” Celestino countered. “And if he doesn’t see it, then one of us needs to tell him.”

Chris didn’t say anything to that.

 

Yuuri fell ill. Upon hearing the news Victor sent Chris to him daily to ask after his health and bring back a detailed account of how Yuuri felt every day. He resisted the urge to pay him daily visits himself, knowing that appearing at his house too frequently wouldn’t go so well for Yuuri, even though Victor sent people he trusted to protect the house and its inhabitants.

One day Chris returned with a smile. “Yuuri Toshiyevich’s health is on the mend,” he told Victor. He’d taken to giving Yuuri a patronymic as a sign of respect to the boy. Victor was more than happy to let him go on doing so. “I got a chance to see him today. He is much improved.” The smile spread wider. “In health as well as in looks.”

Victor leapt off his chair. “I want to go see him now. Come, Chris!”

They left together. Victor jumped into the first boat he found and Chris rowed it towards the Kukuy Quarter without another word. He kept throwing glances at Victor that the Tsar pretended not to notice.

Once they reached the right spot Victor leapt off the boat and, not troubling himself with waiting for Chris to tie it down, hurried over to the house where Yuuri lived.

Chris caught up with him at the door and they greeted Hiroko and Toshiya together.

They bowed politely and led the way to the room where Yuuri sat by the window, leaning against several pillows.

He wanted to rise to his feet, but Victor rushed to his side and sat down at the couch next to him before he could.

He admired Yuuri in silence, how the sunlight caressed his face, how tender his eyes were.

“How are you feeling, Yuuri?”

“Better, thank you.” He blushed as Victor took his hand in both of his own.

At the other end of the room Chris told Yuuri’s parents an interesting story he heard once. He got really enthusiastic, recounting the tale loudly and pointing from time to time out the nearest window for some reason.

Victor sat, his eyes locked on Yuuri’s and feeling something inside him tremble. “I want them to leave,” he said hoarsely.

Yuuri turned bright red.

Victor tore his gaze away at last and turned to where Chris stood with Yuuri’s parents. “Leave!”

They rushed out, closing the door behind them.

“I love you,” Victor whispered as soon as they were gone.

There was a softness in Yuuri’s eyes Victor had never seen before as he whispered the words back. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against Victor’s.

Everything inside Victor burned. He could feel his head spinning. His heart beat faster not so much from excitement, as from a sudden fear.

He gripped Yuuri’s shoulders but didn’t dare move his body closer. Instead, he pulled his face away.

Yuuri’s expression was even softer now. His gentle fingers brushed over Victor’s cheek and Victor pulled away from that too, gritting his teeth.

He ran out of the room and out of the house.

Chris chased after him.

They didn’t stop until they got to the boat. Victor halted two steps away from the water and stared down at the boat, pursing his lips as if it had offended him in some way.

“What is it?” Chris asked. “Did he say something wrong?”

“Be quiet!” Victor ordered. He gripped his head, convinced it would burst. Everything inside him was in pain and he was sure that his heart would stop. He suppressed the scream that rose to his lips.

“Listen,” Chris said, putting his hand on Victor’s shoulder, “there is no need to suffer so. I am certain that if you ask for something, Yuuri Toshiyevich wouldn’t deny you anything.”

“I said _be quiet_ ,” Victor ordered in a low and dangerous voice.

“I know,” he added after a while in a voice that was almost a whisper. “I _know_! And then what? Did you think about that? _Then what_? He becomes my lover, like Yakov is to Lilia? Hmm? Here comes Yuuri, lover of the Tsar? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Chris stepped back.

“And _then_ what?” Victor exclaimed again. “Stupid people laughing at him in the street? Peasants exchanging jokes about Yuuri and me? _Me and him_? _Laughed a_ t?”

“So what…?” Chris left the question unfinished.

Victor turned away, frowned at the boat and then jumped into it. Chris joined him and untied the boat. He rowed them away from the shore.

“I’m going to marry Yuuri,” Victor said at last.

Chris raised his eyes and met Victor’s gaze. “But Yuuri Toshiyevich is a foreigner.”

“I know.”

“And a commoner,” Chris added.

“I know.”

“And _a boy_.”

Victor scoffed as if all three attributes were just minor details.

“The people will never stand for it,” Chris said and held his breath, waiting for Victor to snap back.

“This has nothing to do with the people.”

“And what about the church?” Chris asked.

“What _about_ the church?”

Chris kept rowing, looking for the right way of putting it, “They’ll never marry the two of you. Not if you want to keep ruling.”

Victor reclined and closed his eyes. “If I tell them to marry us, they will marry us.”

There was no arguing with that, not if he wanted to keep his head, anyway.

 

Chris later recounted this conversation to Celestino, trying to prove to the man that no amount of persuasion would change Victor’s mind.

“I’ll talk to Yuuri and see if he can persuade Herr Victor to see reason,” was Celestino’s verdict.

Chris tried and failed to convince him to change his mind.

They found a moment to speak to Yuuri when Victor was elsewhere and it took only a few dropped hints for the boy to realize what was wanted of him.

He agreed easily enough, but when he spoke with Victor the end result was a disaster.

Victor went off in a huff, barely able to control his temper. He wrote an angry letter, tore it up before sending it and then sulked for a week, avoiding the Kukuy Quarter and even spending some nights out with his army.

Seven days later, sick with longing and pale from nights of missed sleep, he arrived at Yuuri’s house. He marched up to a half-terrified Yuuri who’d frozen in a bow and demanded, as politely as he could, with his hands shaking that they speak outside, out of everyone’s earshot.

No one heard the words they exchanged in the garden behind Yuuri’s house. No one saw the Tsar weep (for weep he did). And, so, the words between them remained a complete mystery to everyone else, since this time Victor didn’t even tell Chris what happened.

They stood among rows of rosebushes, so lovingly cultivated by Yuuri and his family. Victor held his hat in his hands. Neither of them could find the courage to speak first.

Finally Yuuri said, “I’m pleased to see you here, Your Majesty: it gives me a chance to thank you for all the kindness you have shown me and to say my farewells. I’ve decided to return to the home of my ancestors.”

Victor drew in a sharp breath and said nothing.

“It is a long voyage and I do not expect to return.” He wanted to say more, to add that he was sorry for the way matters had turned out, but was interrupted by the sight of tears rolling silently down His Majesty’s face.

Victor wept without making a sound, clutching his hat tighter and making no move to wipe his tears away.

After a short silence he spoke at last with a steady voice. “I never suspected that Yuuri was such a selfish person.”

“Yes,” Yuuri agreed, the pain of Victor’s words piercing his heart. “I am a very selfish man. I have no wish to be responsible for the destruction of a whole country.”

“Or, perhaps,” Victor continued for him, “perhaps, Yuuri is secretly receiving the attentions of someone else, someone who will give him everything he wants, all the joys one gets from a happy marriage, for instance.”

“You know it’s not true!” Yuuri exclaimed.

“Do I?” Victor demanded. The week of agony had been poisoned by jealousy and it had made him angry and stupid. He’d had all manner of nasty thoughts in the late hours of the night and was remembering them all now.

“You have your men watching the house at all hours! Ask them if anyone else visits me! Ask them how the whole Kukuy Quarter comes to speak with my parents while I lock myself away, unable to listen to their words and hints!”

“Those men are for your protection only,” Victor said, his temper cooling rapidly. “I would never ask them to spy on you.”

Yuuri turned away. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“And so you give in just like that? What about your promise to wait for me?” Victor whispered, stepping closer. He put his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders. “I won’t let anyone tell me what to do,” he said quietly. “I will turn this country inside out to make what I want of it. I want people I love and trust by my side when I do it.”

Yuuri turned around to face him.

“It won’t be easy and I won’t pretend otherwise. But will you trust that I can do it?”

Instead of an answer, Yuuri leaned forward and kissed him.

Victor gripped Yuuri’s shoulders, his hat dropping to the ground. His heart beat fast, faster than it ever had, faster than that morning all those years ago when there were Streltsy gathered outside the Kremlin. He pulled Yuuri closer, wrapping his arms around the boy so tightly it hurt.

“So you will stay?” He asked, pulling away at last.

“Yes,” Yuuri whispered. “I don’t really have it in me to leave, anyway.”

They strolled through the garden arm in arm afterwards, not saying anything. After a week of bitter and painful thoughts all Victor needed was Yuuri’s calming presence.

“What do you want me to do?” Yuuri asked as they changed directions once more and headed back towards the house.

“Study everything,” Victor answered. “I, for my part, will do the same. We need to learn everything we can, be it history, geography, languages or boat-making.”

Yuuri nodded. His eye fell on a pair of garden scissors. He picked them up and cut off a rose in full bloom. “Please forgive me,” he said and handed it to Victor who accepted it with a grateful nod and pressed it against his lips.

Summer was ending and the week that followed was full of nothing but rain. A cold winter followed soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who said I can't have 5 ongoing fics at the same time? Lies...
> 
> (Tune in next time to see how long I can keep this up for.)


	7. The Great Fast

It was spring again and the time of the Great Fast. The Tsarina sat by the window, staring at the apple trees outside where the blossoms were starting to shyly appear on the branches. Every summer there were a dozen or so young girls sitting under them, peeling apples and singing happily.

Now the ringing of church bells filled the air, calling everyone to mass. But she remained where she was. There was a time when she stood in the main church in Moscow and everyone respected her, but now she was confined here, not content to go out to any small church.

Her Viten’ka was in Moscow, attending mass with his half-sister and, as always, the Tsarina worried over him while he was away. He’d gotten even taller and even thinner over the winter, always running around with those soldiers of his. He had a new game now: he pretended to be a regular soldier among them. That the Tsar of all the Russias, the representative of God on Earth, the descendant of an old and noble home would run around like a common soldier was unthinkable!

He was always busy elsewhere. There were always things for him to do and so she rarely ever saw him. All she got were letters written hastily and signed “Vctr” or more demands for money for his army.

The treasury was nearly empty. Where would they get more money?

And when he wasn’t fighting and risking his life he was out there with the foreigners, visiting _that boy_.

She’d spent all winter, trying to find him a wife. All winter, she sent around for young, beautiful daughters of old noble families. They were tripping over each other, eager to marry the Tsar.

But Victor wasn’t interested in a single woman in all of Russia.

She’d sent a girl she trusted to go spy on the foreign boy, to find out what Viten’ka found so attractive about him. She returned looking completely lost.

He was nothing special, just a young boy with black hair and dark eyes, like you could find anywhere. So he could play the lute, so what of that?

They’d poisoned her son! The foreigners were feeding him a love potion to make him lose his head over a plain boy and now that Celestino and, worse still, _that Christophe_ had power over him!

She was at a complete loss as to what to do.

She’d already broken the rule about not letting the husband see his wife before the wedding by bringing all the potential brides to show Viten’ka, but all for nothing.

_Oh God,_ she prayed that sunny morning, _send him Your wisdom. Let him do the right thing. Don’t let Lilia win._

 

Victor was in Moscow’s main church, standing next to Lilia and doing his best to suppress his thoughts about his half-sister. He couldn’t help but sneak glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

She had her head lowered and her eyes closed as if she was really absorbed in prayer. He didn’t believe it for an instant.

Yakov was having no success in his war and it looked like any day now he would return empty-handed. And then what?

And they kept finding poisoned food in the Tsar’s kitchens. One of the serfs had died a day ago when they stole food from the kitchen. People ran around and screamed. Someone shouted something about the serf deserving his fate.

Victor merely watched, unable to tear his gaze away from the sufferings of the man.

_That could’ve been me._

They had taste-testers try every bite that was supposed to pass his lips, but what did it matter? If one way didn’t work, his enemies were bound to try another. It was only a matter of time.

What next? Soldiers?

_Streltsy_.

He felt his head spin and gritted his teeth.

The Patriarkh turned and Victor stepped forward to take the icon from his hands, but the man didn’t even look at him. He handed it to Lilia instead.

“Give it back,” Victor growled.

Lilia pretended not to hear him and walked away, carrying the icon proudly.

The church filled with muttering. The Tsar was shouting in church as if it were a mere pub. He’d become a real drunk, renounced all Russian traditions and ran around with foreigners day in and day out. Was this behaviour suitable for the Tsar of all the Russias?

Lilia was completely different: she was wise and respected the old traditions. She stood in church respectfully, quietly and when she walked the person watching her thought of a swan gliding on the surface of a lake. She had the dignity of a Tsarina of an old and noble house. She could rule.

Victor bit his lips as these whispers reached his ears. _Snake! Snake!_

Unable to stay any longer, he left, his head full of dark thoughts. Something had to be done. But what? He was the next rightful ruler and he’d almost come of age. If he waited long enough Lilia would simply stop being regent.

Unless, of course, she had plans to make sure Victor never came of age.

 

Yakov returned from the war, but with no victory, no glory, nothing at all to show for it. Lilia received him with a grand ceremony as if he’d returned a conqueror of distant lands. She demanded he was awarded the greatest honours and sent him to the Tsar so that he would award them to him himself.

Someone asked Yakov to wait in a small dark room and he did. He waited all day long only to return to Moscow with nothing.

Victor refused to even see him.

 

The people were restless. The struggle between Lilia and Victor for the throne, the rumours and stories that were going around, the tension in the air, it was all starting to wear them out. Seeing that the treasury was empty, the boyars invented new taxes to get the Tsar the money he wanted for his games and Yakov for his war that none of them understood the point of.

They were tired of the uncertainty and intrigues. Let one of them rule. What did it matter which it was? Just let one of them devour the other already and put an end to it.

 

The streltsy kept muttering amongst themselves. Someone was offering a lot of money. A lot of money? And for what? Well, what _could_ it be?

“To rise against the Tsar,” some of them whispered, looking around in fear and crossing themselves.

How could Lilia offer anyone any money when they hadn’t been paid for the past three months?

“Lilia promised she will pay,” someone would answer.

“Promises! That’s all they feed us: promises!”

“Did you hear about the Tsar’s army? Vas’ka told me they’re all well-paid and fed! They are given new uniforms when their old ones become too worn. They don’t need to patch theirs up like we do all the time!”

“We should go join them.”

“Will he take us? I heard he hates the streltsy.”

“If we tell him about these plans, His Majesty will take us,” one of them suggested.

They grouped around closer.

“Right,” one of them said quietly. “Now we just need to leave in as quiet and discreet a way as possible.”

“We’ll leave right before dawn,” the oldest of the group whispered, “I know a way we can go and the dark will protect us.”

 

Dawn came. The Tsar awoke from the sounds of a commotion outside his room. He sat up in alarm.

On the floor by his bed Chris turned over and then jumped to his feet, going from asleep to completely awake in mere seconds. There was something in his hand, but Victor couldn’t make out what it was.

It was still dark in the room. Outside the sky was just beginning to lighten.

“They are coming for me,” Victor muttered. “Lilia sent assassins this time.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Chris said and walked soundlessly to the door.

It swung open right in front of his face and several men ran in.

Victor backed away against the wall. All the men dropped to their knees.

“Your Majesty,” one of them began, rising up, and then everyone shouted something at once, making it impossible to discern a single word.

He did his best to understand what they were trying to tell him, but then he heard “Lilia” and “streltsy” and understood all too well.

His vision darkened and, for a moment, Victor felt the cold breath of death approaching. He remembered that terrifying morning all those years ago, remembered the bloodlust, and the screams, and the fear.

The fear that they were going to kill him.

And here they were again. And this time they were going to kill him. This time they’d caught him completely defenceless.

He ran, forgetting everything, forgetting about his army, forgetting even that he was only in his nightshirt. He didn’t even stop to look for a horse. he just kept going, as fast as his feet would carry him.

He didn’t see the road, or the wood on both sides of it. All he could see were those soldiers with their large poleaxes and their desire to kill him. And at their head: Lilia carrying that icon.

He didn’t see how he entered a dark wood.


	8. Sergiyev Posad

The chill of the morning crept into his bones and suddenly he became aware of his surroundings. Trees rose up on all sides of him. It dawned on him then that he had no idea where he was and, what was worse, he stood barefoot in the middle of a wood.

This was his land. He was the Tsar who had the power to decide which of his subjects lived and which died. But what good was that? This was his land, yes, but could he tell that tree not to grow, or that flower not to bloom? Would the cold breeze stop blowing once it was told that the Tsar of the land was cold?

The Tsar of all the Russias knew precisely where his power ended.

He would have to find his way back on his own and return to Preobrazhenskoe as he was and on foot. There was no other way around it.

That meant that everyone would see the Tsar walking down the road in nothing more than his nightshirt.

What else could he do? He swallowed down his pride and his shame and walked in what he took for the direction from which he came.

Someone burst in through the trees, riding on the back of a horse. The rider dismounted and dropped to his knees at Victor’s feet.

“Your Majesty forgot this.” It was Chris.

He brought Victor’s clothes and gave him his horse.

With a smile that promised everything that a monarch’s gratitude could grant a person, Victor dressed himself, jumped onto the horse and made with all haste for Sergiyev Posad. On the way there he was joined by several people he trusted (including Chris himself) and together they arrived at the gates of the Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius.

The Trinity Lavra was more than a monastery, but a true fortress with eight towers, all of which promised good protection to all those within its walls. Lilia herself had once hid behind them and now it was Victor’s turn. He was soon joined by his mother and his army. Those among the streltsy who were loyal to the Tsar followed soon after.

A whisper went through Moscow. They all heard about Victor’s shameful run in his nightshirt. Lilia’s supporters recounted the story of that run to everyone who would listen, but Victor’s supporters countered these tales with a question.

Was it right that the Tsar of all the Russias, the rightful heir to the throne, had to go seek protection from the regent behind the walls of a fortress? Were people really content to stand by and let Lilia usurp power from the Tsar?

Doubt passed through the streltsy, but still they stayed in Moscow. There was still talk of an uprising, but Lilia missed her chance. She hesitated for too long and opinions swung in Victor’s favour.

 

The Tsarina watched her son with amazement. It was as if someone had come in overnight and replaced him with someone else. Where had all such wisdom come from? When the boyars loyal to him joined him in the Trinity Lavra he accepted to see them all. Every day he spent several hours in conference with them, listening to everything they said without a single argument. He stayed away from alcohol and not a word was said about the Kukuy Quarter.

Out of all the foreigners, he only kept Chris at his side (who everyone had learned to accept as one of their own, so good was he at making friends with everyone) and he only saw Celestino in secret.

Her Viten’ka was finally coming to his senses! She knew he was deeply ashamed of running away that morning, but it did not trouble her in the slightest, not if it meant that Viten’ka was now awake and aware of his situation. And alive and well.

The Tsarina watched her son with a great deal of pride.

He attended church regularly and listened to every word she said. And she, herself, was, once again, granted the honours that she, as the mother of the Tsar, deserved. There was a special place at the front for her during service in church and several boyars sought her opinion on important matters.

It would only be a matter of time before she could convince Viten’ka to marry, she was sure of it. And, what brought more joy to her heart, she had finally found a woman who was truly worth the honour of marrying the Tsar.

The poor Tsarina had no way of knowing that one letter travelled the long distance between the Trinity Lavra to the Kukuy Quarter, full of renewed promises and granting a certain young man several privileges. She had no idea that the same young man put the letter in a secret place and went on, gathering tutors from all corners of the Kukuy Quarter, eager to learn everything they could teach. The same young man sent for a tutor from France and paid visits to many of the Kukuy Quarter’s most notable merchants to learn more from them. The Tsarina had no way of knowing that Yuuri Katsuki, while nothing more than a mere commoner, was incredibly intelligent and that the Kukuy Quarter was lending their best efforts to prepare a suitable consort for the Tsar.

 

Celestino watched Victor, knowing all too well how ashamed the young Tsar felt about running away and advised caution. He talked of kings donning dresses to save their lives and a king who hid in a bed with a commoner to escape. He put Victor’s mind at ease, as best as he could.

“After all,” he reasoned, “what does it matter how you survive, if you succeed? You are the Tsar and your life is worth more than a little shame.”

Victor listened to this talk without a word.

“You are destined to do great things, Herr Victor,” Celestino would tell him. “My heart tells me so and my heart is rarely wrong in these matters.”

 

Lilia’s position was weakening. Everyone could see that. She placed her streltsy on all of the roads leading from Moscow. Victor’s response was an angry letter demanding to know the reason for these actions. Lilia responded with the claim that she had meant to set out from the city and would His Majesty not grace Moscow with his presence?

Victor sent no reply.

More boyars arrived from Moscow each day.

Until early one morning Yakov came to Sergiev Posad.

Yakov was not allowed to enter the Trinity Lavra. He was asked to wait and put in a small house that was in a state of disrepair.

Rain fell in through the holes in the roof as he sat on a low wooden bench and stared down at his hands. A young woman tried to clear the dirt in the house, but only succeeded in making it worse.

Yakov sat, his brows furrowed and waited as patiently as he could.

He’d asked to be admitted to see the Tsar, but he knew he would not be granted permission to do this. After the tensions in Moscow, after Lilia’s cold treatment, he grew tired. He wanted to get things over with.

Once, he’d dreamt of the throne and power. He’d dreamt of ruling, if not by Lilia’s side, then at least through her, but now he sat humbly, waiting for the Tsar’s decision, expecting a death sentence.

As the afternoon was replaced by the evening a man came in and read out the Tsar’s decision.

Yakov was stripped of his rank and titles. His lands were all taken from him and he himself was sent several hundred versts away from Moscow in eternal exhile.

Yakov rose without a word and accepted his fate like a man who knew there was no other choice.

The man who’d read the Tsar’s decision to him didn’t give him a single look and left as if he’d come to speak with the walls of the house and not a man who’d been the favourite of the person in power.

 

Two weeks later Lilia came to see the Tsar and was refused in much the same way and sentenced to spend the rest of her days in a convent.

 

It was an early morning late in September when Tsar Victor entered Moscow like a victorious conqueror. The streltsy greeted them in their own way, begging for mercy: everywhere along the road lay logs on which they placed their heads, axes ready by their sides should the Tsar decide to behead any of them for their disloyalty.

Victor pardoned all of them and, for a while, peace returned to Moscow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want pictures of the place where Victor spends this chapter, you can find them [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/115120419@N08/sets/72157672150414391). Keep in mind these photos are what the place looks like now and it did look different back then (but I have no idea how different). I simplified the details a bit here, but Peter did run off to the Trinity Lavra for protection behind its walls.


	9. Archangelsk

Celestino was giving a ball in his new house. Victor himself had sent him a lot of money as soon as he heard about the project and, so, what was initially intended to be merely a new house grew into a little palace.

He invited everyone who lived in the Kukuy Quarter as well as some of the foreigners who were visiting Russia at the time to come to the ball and see his new palace.

The Kukuy foreigners admired the palace, weighing each word that left their lips carefully. Everyone knew how much influence he had over the Tsar’s opinion and no one wanted to be Celestino’s enemy.

The other person who was at the centre of attention at the palace was Yuuri Katsuki. The young man’s connection with the Tsar was no secret and everyone wished to be as pleasing to the young man as they were to Celestino.

Yuuri Katsuki, or, as some were starting to call him, Yuuri Toshiyevich, was dressed better than most of the foreigners present. He bowed politely to each person who came to speak with him and enquired after their health and affairs.

The foreign merchants found, to their great surprise, that the young man, who they’d taken for a simple boy (even if, as rumours insisted, he was the Tsar’s favourite), spoke very well about trade, often displaying a knowledge greater than their own. He listened to what each person told him and then asked them questions in a humble way that, nevertheless, caught but one or two foreigners.

They whispered among themselves afterwards.

“If the Tsar intends to marry this young man, as they say he does, then, perhaps, he is wiser than we imagined.”

There was a young man among them all, who listened with his head inclined curiously and said very little.

One of the merchants asked another one in a whisper who that was.

“Christophe Giacometti,” came the answer, “one of the closest men to the Tsar.”

The merchant turned and greeted the young man. “It would be a great honour to us to see the Muscovite Tsar, one that, I am sure, I would tell all of my children and grandchildren about.”

Chris smiled like one who spotted a joke only he could see and replied with, “Worry not, you will see the Tsar in due time.”

The doors opened and Tsar Victor arrived in person. He was dressed in foreign clothes, in a long dark green coat with silver buttons. His head and shoulders were covered with a fine layer of snow. At first glance, his face bore a serious expression, but there was laughter in his eyes.

Celestino flew across the room to greet his guest.

“ _Guten tag_ ,” Victor greeted him.

His first words were to the owner of the palace. His second – for Yuuri Toshiyevich. And as he raised his head, as if to choose who would get his attention third, the orchestra invited by Celestino began to play.

No one moved: they were all waiting for the Tsar to begin the dance.

Yuuri, feeling the general discomfort and understanding what it meant, raised his eyes and met those of Victor.

The Tsar smiled, bowed and invited Yuuri to the dance.

He was lost in thought through the first steps of the dance. He even got a few of them wrong without noticing. Yuuri circled him for the next part of the dance and Victor’s eyes were drawn to the young man.

The Tsar had arrived to visit his friend and make use of this opportunity to speak with the merchants who had arrived from Europe. He’d greeted Yuuri in his usual way, his mind too full of the conversation he was about to have to give the young man his full attention.

Now he felt like a man whose eyes had been opened. Yuuri Katsuki, the shy innocent young man from before had gotten a little older and more confident. He moved with the grace of a descendant from an old noble house. His smiles made the Tsar’s heart beat faster and the gentle touch of his hands was enough to make the Tsar’s head spin.

He had arrived unprepared to see Yuuri like this and followed his lead through three whole dances, the merchants utterly forgotten.

On the fourth dance Yuuri used one of the steps to come closer to the Tsar and whisper, “Herr Victor, you have come, no doubt, to speak with the merchants visiting us and I dare not steal any more of your time.”

Victor, on his part, replied with, “Were I not the Tsar, I would give you every hour of my life, Yuuri, but alas, I am not free to do so.”

Yuuri blushed and Victor knew he’d said the very thing that needed to be said.

Every person in the room watched this exchange with great interest. As soon as the Tsar left Yuuri to speak with the merchants, they all bowed respectfully and, as one, complimented the palace, its owner and the charming Yuuri Toshiyevich.

The Tsar inclined his head, but his expression was difficult to read.

“We are greatly honoured to be here,” one of the merchants said. “Russia is a land of many riches, and, especially many forests.”

Chris and Victor exchanged a smile.

“What do you sell?” Chris asked.

“Lumber,” came the reply.

“Yes,” another man spoke up, “however, the Russians make no use of these riches. If you had free access to the Baltic Sea, Your Majesty, you would be able to trade freely and really improve your affairs.”

“Europe has forests of its own,” the lumber merchant went on, “but, as you well know, the ships everyone builds now are much bigger than before, requiring five times more forest than they used to.”

“And not just forest,” another merchant put in, “think of the sails!”

“Yes, yes,” the lumber merchant waved the words away, “but my point stands: without big forests how can the monarchs of Europe hope to have ships for their navies?”

Victor listened to the merchants’ talk of the navies of the British and Swedish kings and thought of his own country. He was one of the monarchs of Europe, but he had no navy, no ships, absolutely nothing. How could the Baltic Sea, or any other sea be his, if had no ships in which to sail across it?

Up north the Swedes controlled the Baltic Sea and down south the Turks had the Black Sea.

If both seas could be his, how many trade routes could he open up then! He could have the merchants of all the countries of the world come here to sell and trade their goods.

He needed Russia’s forests himself, but who could he find to turn the trees into ships fit for a navy? And where could he find people to sail on those ships?

He said nothing more, too lost in his own thoughts for the rest of the evening.

Celestino, seeing his foul mood ordered for the tables to be set with all the food in the palace and had the best wine brought out for his guests.

The Tsar got the place of honour. Celestino placed Yuuri by his side and took the spot on the Tsar’s other side himself.

Everyone ate and drank to the point of almost bursting. Chris downed glass after glass of wine, turning paler with each one, but still not stopping.

The merchants changed the topic of their conversation and spoke of other things.

Yuuri gave the Tsar a curious look, as if he was waiting for him to do or say something. What was he waiting for? The question troubled Victor, making him slide impatiently in his chair as he bit his lips.

Celestino, misunderstanding the Tsar’s actions, gestured for the orchestra to play the music louder.

It was a sly melody and spoke of Yuuri’s charms, how beautiful he looked that evening. Every bit of the young man tempted Victor closer. He took in the line of Yuuri’s neck and shoulders, the graceful way he raised his hand when drinking from a glass and everything inside him shook.

The guests tried to flatter Victor and win his favour, making him suspect that there was a secret goal they were all pursuing, but when Yuuri spoke he knew each word was true. And when he raised those clear, innocent eyes to his face, Victor was ready to grant any of the man’s desires.

And still a voice in the back of his mind taunted him, reminding him of how small and insignificant he was in comparison to the other monarchs of Europe.

He left late, walking out with his lips pursed and his brows furrowed. Chris hurried after him and in that moment the Tsar was angry even with him.

 

Half a year went by with more games with the toy army.

It was dawn. Victor and a group of people he trusted were all on a ship with him, sailing up to Archangelsk. They all stood on the deck of the ship, looking out at the coast. This was the first time any of them had been this far north.

Myriads of ships stood along the west coast. Many flags fluttered in the breeze. All was order here. Clean houses lined the streets with roofs made of tiles.

On the east coast was still the same Russia they were all used to with its bells and church domes, its dirty streets and wooden houses.

Rich and grand, the European coast gazed down on the east one like a ruler gazes down on one of his subjects.

Victor was silent. Celestino said nothing as well, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. Chris muttered something inaudible under his breath.

The canons of the closest ship fired: a little cloud rose up into the air and the sound followed after, drowning out the ringing of the bells coming from the east coast.

Victor ran up to one of the canons on his ship and fired it himself. But the noise was small, like the yelp of a little dog after the roar of a lion.

He raised his eyes to this ship and saw all of the merchants he’d spoken to in Celestino’s house waving to him in greeting. And he fancied he could see a mocking smile on their faces. These foreigners were different from the ones he was used to. The Kukuy foreigners all acted like his subjects, ready to do anything to please him. But these foreigners were free to do whatever they wished and didn’t seem to care very much for the Tsar of all the Russias. There were all smiling at him, even the captain of the ship, who was standing further away, smiling down at the awkward lanky youth, the Tsar of the barbarians.

And he decided to surprise them. The boyars could put on airs and act indignant, but he, Victor Alexeyev, a mere skipper of the second class in the navy, would act differently. _We are but simple workers, poor, but smart, came here to ask you to teach us how to hold the axe correctly._

He went up to their ship, shook everyone’s hands and clapped some of them on their backs. Mixing Flemish and German words, he told them about his trip up to Archangelsk. He laughed at his own ship and then exclaimed in awe, studying their ships, saying “if only we could get a pair or two of ships like this one.”

He promised them to learn to build the ships himself and to teach his boyars to do the same. Giving them a meaningful wink, he then promised them a deal that would benefit everyone present.

The foreigners watched in amazement, their hats sliding off their heads.

Victor ate with them before taking a boat to the east coast to sort a few of his own people out.

 

That evening Victor sat with Celestino in his room on the ship. He’d arrived long after everyone had fallen asleep, unable to sleep himself and shook his friend awake.

“There is no sleep for me,” Victor mumbled as Celestino sat up in his bed.

“Are you feeling ill, Herr Victor? We can find you a physician here, if you are,” Celestino offered.

“No, not that,” Victor shook his head. “What do I do?” he asked after a short pause. “I want to buy two ships from Holland.”

“That’s good,” the man replied.

“And we’ll build some of our own,” Victor added.

“Very good.”

“What else do you suggest I do?”

Celestino gave him a surprised look. He sat lost deep in thought for a while. Noises were coming in from the outside – the splashing of the waves, the shouts of people up in the ships.

Celestino stared at the candle on the table. “All great heroes gained their fame in war…”

“Who am I supposed to fight with? You want me to follow in Yakov’s footsteps and go to Crimea?”

“You can’t do anything without the Black and Azov Seas, Victor,” Celestino went on in a steady voice, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And you need the Baltic Sea. The Dutch promise to carry ten times as many goods if the Baltic Sea becomes yours.”

“Are you mad?” Victor whispered. “You want me to fight with the Swedes? Or are you laughing at me? No one can defeat them!”

Celestino smiled and gave a little nod. “I’m not telling you to go fight them tomorrow. You asked for my advice and this is what I recommend you do.”

 

The Tsarina finally got a chance to see her son after so many months of separation. He came on the day when she felt as if nail had lodged itself in her chest. She lay on her pillows, staring up at the ceiling with her eyes open wide and feeling the emptiness in her chest.

A letter had been sent to him, describing the poor state of her health. All day different boyars and servant girls ran in and out of the room, crossed themselves and asked if she needed anything.

Viten’ka ran in, looking strange and not at all like her son. He was even taller and thinner now, in foreign clothes, looking like a simple sailor. He gripped his hat in his hands, tightening his fingers over it.

“Mother!” he exclaimed and it was the same voice, the voice of her Viten’ka, her little Viten’ka, back when he was still a child and only knew how to say one word. “Mother!”

“Viten’ka…” she murmured, her tongue heavy. She reached out for him and he threw his arms around her, dropping his head onto her chest.

“Mother…” he mumbled. Then he jumped to his feet, turned and grabbed the servant girl in the room. “Stupid girl! Send for a doctor! Send for one from the Kukuy Quarter, you hear me?”

The servant girl ran out, shaking from head to toe in fear. “The Tsar ordered… ordered…” she murmured to the first people she saw, but she never told them what the Tsar had ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure how long this fic will be, but my current estimate is that there will be at least another 11 chapters; I think I figured out where I want to stop, so we’ll see how long it takes me to get there.  
> Also, there is a very important thing [here](http://witharthurkirkland.tumblr.com/post/169443724888/dear-fic-or-original-story-readers-and-art), that you should all read.


	10. The Tsarina

Despite the best efforts of several doctors, death claimed the Tsarina several days after Victor’s return.

Victor was with her during her last moments. He saw her draw her last breath and watched her eyes close slowly. His head rested on her chest and he heard her heartbeats slow to a stop. He raised his head and stared for a long time into the much-loved face as he did his best to commit every feature to memory.

He rose to his feet and stepped outside, feeling as though the entire world had abandoned him.

His mind was full of memories of his mother and his childhood. He remembered carefree days spent running through the rooms of the Kremlin before he was crowned Tsar, before he had to worry about his country and his people.

The Tsarina’s body was prepared for burial and then he sat up with her body alone refusing to let anyone else stay with him or to take his place.

A single candle burned on the table, barely casting any light in a room that seemed to be nothing but shadows. Cold shadows. Hostile shadows.

He lowered his head, his arms draped over his legs. Sleep would not have come even if he wanted it to.

There was something heavy and painful in his chest, like a sharp lump of metal forged by a novice smith. His heart was empty. He felt like he had wept all the tears he could.

The room filled with another light and he raised his head.

Lilia stepped into the room, all in black, a veil draped over her head and a candle in her hand. To Victor she appeared liked the spectre of death itself and he crossed himself without thinking.

“What do you want here?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

“Rest a while, brother,” she said in pacifying tones. “I will stay the rest of the night in your place.”

“You?” he murmured. His lips moved soundlessly as he sought out more words to express the depth of his fury. “Leave this place at once!”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he merely pointed out the door, all too aware of the corpse of his mother behind him and having no wish to speak the words that rose to his throat and demanded to be spoken.

At the sound of his voice, several people ran into the room.

Lilia bowed and left the room without another word, escorted by the servants who had run into the room.

He closed the door after her and returned to his chair.

 

When the morning came he left the room with his heart aching no less than it had done before.

Celestino and Chris greeted him as soon as he stepped outside.

“My sincerest condolences on your loss, Herr Victor,” Celestino said and Chris echoed his words.

He stared at them like one who could not remember who they were.

Both men had spent the evening before whispering their predictions of the future. Both men came to the same conclusion: “Victor is the sole ruler of all the Russias now.” They knew what this meant. It mattered little what the Boyars did or said and it mattered even less what the streltsy did: Victor would do whatever his heart desired.

 

_“The people will be against this wedding,” Chris whispered, shaking his head._

_Celestino leaned closer, “He cares little for the wishes of his people. He needs to see that this is a bad time for a wedding.”_

_“Are you suggesting I speak to him about this?” Chris asked with a note of resignation in his voice._

_Celestino regarded him with a smile, reclining in his chair. “No. I will do my best to persuade him myself.”_

Victor stood before them now, crushing his hat in his hands, his eyes darting from one friend to the other, as if seeking solace there.

“Herr Victor,” Celestino began, “may I recommend that you take some rest before going to church?”

The sound of footsteps made Victor turned and he watched several men carry a coffin with the body of his mother out of the house. Forgetting everything else, he followed close behind.

Celestino and Chris fell into step behind him without exchanging a single glance.

The Tsar insisted on being present in church until they carried the body of his mother out to be buried.

He was pale and exhausted, but at the gentle suggestions of his friends to take a rest he merely shook his head and mumbled something incoherent about duty.

Was it guilt that pushed him through the day? Was guilt the reason that he took no moment to rest, or eat, or even stop to do so much as draw a deep breath?

The Tsar called his Boyars together and resumed his duties, presenting a calm face as he listened to each of them speak.

The Boyars exchanged looks and whispers. What had changed the Tsar so much? Was the death of his mother enough to make him see reason? Would this mean that they finally had a monarch worthy of ruling?

Some of the Boyars winked at each other and whispered about a wife.

The Tsar needed to take a wife now more than ever, they said. She would help him carry the burden of his grief and, of course, a wife would help secure the next heir for the throne.

Once the Tsar left some of them even gathered in a group, determined that they would find the Tsar a suitable wife better than any of the women the Tsarina had recommended.

 

The Tsar was exhausted, but he dared not return to his chambers. He was afraid to sleep. Over the course of the day he had become convinced that he would have nothing but nightmares. Each time he closed his eyes he remembered the face of his mother on her deathbed.

But what was there for him to do? The hour was late and if sleep would offer him no relief, then his only other hope lay in drinking enough to forget his troubles.

Chris and Celestino appeared at his sides then.

“Herr Victor,” Celestino said with a respectful bow, “may I have a few hours of your time?”

Victor turned and waited for a request. What did the man want now? Money? He could feel himself reaching the end of his patience.

“May I invite you to a small dinner in honour of your dear mother?” Celestino asked.

He could see by the man’s face that he was planning something, but in that moment it mattered very little to him what it was. He gave a curt nod, not bothering with any words and followed the two men outside where three horses were waiting for all of them.

Victor could ride a horse as well as any man could, but his height always made it an awkward exercise and so he detested it. Nevertheless, he mounted his horse and followed the two men without another word.

They rode until they reached Celestino’s palace, where a dinner was waiting for all of them.

Celestino, with his usual tact, avoided a grand meal.

The Tsar stared at the simple food on the table, took in the empty places where the wine bottles would be and then eyed the fourth chair, which was currently empty. “You are expecting another guest, Celestino?” he asked.

A door opened and Yuuri stepped in. He was all in black. As he crossed the room Victor noticed by the light of the candles that the face of the boy was wet.

“Victor!” he exclaimed, stopping right before Victor. “I am so sorry!” he exclaimed as tears poured down his face.

Victor stepped back and then forward to grip Yuuri by the elbows. He could feel tears on his own face now. He pulled Yuuri close and the young man dropped his head onto Victor’s chest.

They gave in to their tears and little by little Victor felt the weight in his chest lighten. Yuuri shook as if he himself had lost a parent.

When their tears ended Yuuri sat Victor down and served him food himself. It was only then that Victor noticed that he was alone with the young man.

At first Yuuri said very little, asking only if Victor wanted anything and Victor watched him carefully.

It seemed to him that with each month of absence Yuuri changed in some way. He spoke a few words in French and listened to Yuuri’s response.

What was he doing in Victor’s absence?

Grief stepped aside for a moment to let curiosity take its place. Victor asked Yuuri a few innocent-sounding questions. He almost smiled when Yuuri responded.

“Are you testing me?” Yuuri asked, squeezing Victor’s hand lightly.

Victor almost laughed. “No. I rather feel as though I am testing myself.” He caught the boy’s face in both of his hands and leaned close. He stopped and watched a smile appear on Yuuri’s face. “No more tears,” Victor whispered. “I promise you only tears of joy from this day onward.” He pressed his lips against Yuuri’s and felt the young man’s hands slide up his back.

He wished the night could go on forever so that he could have the pleasure of Yuuri’s company. There were many things he wanted to discuss, but after the kiss fatigue spread through his body and his head dropped forward onto the boy’s chest and his heavy eyelids closed.

 

When Celestino and Chris returned in the morning they found the Tsar asleep all alone on the couch in a corner of the room. There was a blanket draped over him. Yuuri had gone, leaving behind a letter on a folded piece of paper.

Chris picked it up, curious as to its contents, but Celestino gave him a stern look and Chris put it back down.

The Tsar slept on, an innocent smile on his face. Both men stood guard over his sleep.

Christophe Giacometti was not a superstitious man, but he could not help the feeling that a big storm was on its way.

And he was right: they were on the brink of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now 20 chapters is an estimate, so there might be 21 in the end...


	11. War

Whispers went around among the people. There seemed to be no end to the Tsar’s energy and demands. The toy army was bad enough, but now he was spending money on building ships and paying foreigners to build them too!

Maybe he just needed a bit of time. Maybe if they waited a bit longer the young Tsar would finally calm down, get married and stop his silly games.

While Victor ran around, watching ships being built and, as rumours would have it, helping build them with his own two hands, a group of diplomats arrived from Poland and spoke with the boyars.

They brought presents and talked about politics. They also offered an exchange: the city of Kiev for Russia entering the war and fighting the Ottoman Empire. How long would the Tsar of all the Russias continue to allow the Turks to do what they liked? Was it not in his best interests to break through and take the Black Sea for himself?

Having no reason not to, the boyars conceded that the diplomat from Poland spoke reason and they signed an agreement. Their Tsar would return victorious, no one doubted that.

Victor learned about the agreement when it was already too late. What could he do?

The time for jokes and games was over. Now was the time to show that he was truly ready. Now was the time for war.

But where they ready? Could they march over there and win?

Victor spent his evenings at Celestino’s palace, listening to the Kukuy foreigners talk about the war as if they had forgotten that the Tsar himself was among them.

“Russia has no need for the Black Sea,” most of the foreigners insisted. “It needs the North one. This war is pointless.”

Victor appeared calm and thoughtful and only Celestino, Chris and Yuuri knew of the terror he buried deep in his heart.

He needed more time. He was not ready for war to simply come and fall on him. It was so easy to be bold and fearless when at home, when surrounded by his soldiers, his servants and his friends. Now came the big trial. The test of his strength and everything he had learned. Had all these years really been for nothing?

Would he win? What if he did not? What then? What would the people do if he returned defeated?

One moonless night Victor slipped out into the gardens behind Celestino’s palace. He walked alone, his eyes on the heavens above.

He often wondered how Alexander the Great felt before embarking on his great conquest. Was he frightened or was he calm? Did he know he would be successful or was he simply hoping he would be?

Gravel crunched under someone’s quick steps, making him turn to see who had followed after him.

A figure rushed to his side and he made out the face of his dear Yuuri in the pale starlight.

“I wish to go with you,” Yuuri said, “as one of your soldiers.”

Victor imagined he could see Yuuri lying dead and cold in the middle of a field of bodies and found it difficult to draw breath. “No,” he said, in great agony, “no, you will remain here. You _must_ remain here.”

He held his breath and waited for Yuuri to ask him the question he had no answer for.

Yuuri remained silent. Then he bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He turned away and the sound of every step echoed in Victor’s heart.

He hurried after Yuuri and caught him by the hand, turning him around. He needed to explain his decision. He needed Yuuri to see that it was the only decision he could make. “You are no soldier,” he said. “I will only take soldiers with me.”

“Then I will train,” Yuuri said. “You told me to learn everything and I have. Now I wish to learn the art of war.”

Victor pulled him close. Yuuri was so full of energy, so indignant. Where had the shy and obedient boy from before gone? Victor felt his love for the boy deepen.

_This is what war does to us. The merest mention, the smallest whisper of war and every person becomes a soldier. War is the anvil of life that tests how strong we are._

He closed his eyes. “I need you here. I need you to be safe.”

“Me? What about you? I am no one, a mere commoner. You are our Tsar!”

Something about the words “our Tsar” warmed Victor’s heart, but he cast aside those feelings for the present.

 _And I can order you to stay here,_ he thought. _No, no, I cannot do that!_ “I am the Tsar and so it is my duty to be at the front with my army. This needs to be my Victory.”

He knew that Yuuri understood the importance of this war. Yuuri understood it very well. A few comments had been proof enough of that, but some part of Victor suspected that Yuuri understood the importance of this war better than he did.

“I love you,” Yuuri whispered and Victor knew those words were more effective than any order he could give.

He trembled. Here was Yuuri, _right here_ , in his arms, less than a span away, within reach.

God above only knew when they would see each other again. If only he could… He _could_ , could he not? Who was there to stop him? Who dared to tell him what to do?

 _He could do whatever he wanted._ The realization hit him at full force, making him rock on his heels.

He was the sole ruler now. The boyars would not dare say a word against him and if they did?

“Yuuri,” he said, “I will keep my promise. I will marry you.” Yes, he knew this with a certainty now. They would get married, he knew it in his bones.

“When?” Yuuri whispered.

Was that impatience in his voice? Eagerness? Fear? Victor still held on to Yuuri and, thus, he could not see his face and had no way of knowing what he thought of Victor’s declaration.

“When I return with a victory,” he replied, his head spinning.

 

That spring in great secret and without any announcement 20 thousand soldiers – all of the ones who had been part of Victor’s toy army – set off in ships down to the Oka River and then the Volga River all the way to Tsaritsyno.

Another 20 thousand, led by one of Victor’s generals set off through the wide steppe to Cherkassk.

Both armies were headed for the Azov Fortress that stood overlooking the entrance into the Sea of Azov.

It was decided that the Tsar’s presence would be kept a secret and so Tsar Victor Alexeyevich Nikiforov became lowly bombardier Victor Alexeyev. Even if they suffered a loss, it wouldn’t be so shameful, one of the generals said.

Prince Romodanovsky, a strong and fearless man, as well as Victor’s loyal supporter was left behind in Moscow to rule in Victor’s place.

The people were restless and Lilia, that terrifying enemy, sat in a monastery not too far from Moscow. She was quiet as if she’d accepted her fate. But for how long?

 

The boats built on the Tsar’s orders turned out to be no good. They filled up with water and sank so that in Nizhny Novgorod they had no choice but to get new ones from the people who lived there.

 _Mein herr koenig_ , Victor wrote in his usual hard-to-read handwriting, _by Your Great Majesty’s will sent on this our honourable mission to give our blood for our great country… I write to you to inform Your Majesty that your slaves will set out tomorrow, having lost time because the ships Your Majesty had built are very poor. Some barely lasted three days on the water. A couple of boats sank, taking with them the lives of several people._

_Your Majesty’s lowly servant,_

_Bom Bar Dier Victor_

 

They sailed past Kazan’s towering white walls, past Simbirsk and past Samara, which stood, surrounded by a wall of sharpened wooden stakes as protection from raiders.

Beyond Saratov the grasslands of the steppe wilted under the merciless sun and the blue river flowed slowly, lazily. The air was hot, as if the land had become one big oven.

In the heat the Azov fortress seemed like a myth, or another part of the games Victor played with his toy army. What was the fortress like? How could anyone take it? No one knew, no one had the answers to those questions.

“We will figure it out when we get there,” they told each other, full of confidence. “We will come at it suddenly, catch them unawares and the fortress will be ours before they even have time to realize what happened.”

Celestino was greatly impressed by the wide open steppe, the long river. He would often sigh and remark to Victor that if only he had more people, more workers, more engineers, then he could really make use of his country’s riches.

A soft night followed. Victor lay under the stars, lost deep in a dream. He forgot about the war, remembering only another starry night when he held Yuuri close.

He drifted off without noticing and _there was Yuuri – watering the geraniums in his window. He raised his eyes and smiled at Victor…_

 

Morning came. Victor felt the sunlight on his face and opened his eyes.

All around him men were moving back and forth, whispering excitedly and pointing at something.

Victor rose to his feet and there it was, beyond the blue of the Don River – the Sea of Azov spread out, rolling its waves in the bright sunshine. The Fortress towered over it. He studied its high walls, the gleaming crescent moons on the top of its minarets and his eyes widened.

It was as if someone had brought the pictures in his books to life before his very eyes.


	12. Azov

Once Victor tore his eyes away from the fortress he saw the army encampment with the other soldiers he’d sent. Tents, carts and horses covered the land, flags fluttered in the breeze, all of it a mere 15 versts away from Azov.

Victor made his way to the front of the boat and fired the cannon himself in greeting. The cannon ball skipped along the water’s surface as if he had tossed a pebble.

Gunfire and the booming of cannons filled the air as the soldiers of the encampment answered their greeting.

“Row! Row!” Victor ordered.

They made for the encampment, drawing on the last of their strength. After so many days of travelling, many of the soldiers were exhausted and dropped onto the land the moment the set foot on it.

The general in charge of the soldiers at the encampment stood outside her tent as she waited for the Tsar to arrive, her armour gleaming in the sun. Her name was Minako and she was another of the foreigners from the Kukuy Quarter Victor had taken into his service. She had served in France and, like Celestino, came to Russia, in the hopes of satisfying her ambition. The Tsar, after testing her abilities in the games with the toy army, made her one of his generals, along with Celestino. There were rumours that, apart from the art of war, she was also teaching him how to speak Japanese.

From where she stood the bay opened up before them, beautiful and oh-so-inviting.

The general pointed at the tall ships that carried row upon row of cannons and could just be made out in the distance. “Yesterday those boats brought them reinforcements. They have six thousand soldiers up in their fortress and an army out in the field. They have no shortage of food. We won’t be able to starve them out.”

“Easy,” Celestino said as a smile played on his lips, “we will storm the fortress.”

Minako gave him a look, but said nothing.

Victor stared, mesmerized by the fortress. Was he really here? Were they really about to take a real fortress? Or was it just another game?

He nodded, unable to think of words suitable for the occasion.

Someone brought out a map and laid it out on one of the soldier’s drum. They poured over it, making their plans for where each of the generals would go with their men.

Only one thought troubled the generals: the question of provisions. They were all too aware of that weakness. The route the provisions would take was too vulnerable to attack. They needed to find another way, or to send another army to guard the provisions. But what other way was there and where could they get another army? Boats were no good – the Don River was in their opponent’s hold here.

“We will take the Don River,” Victor said, as if it was a mere trifle.

The generals all agreed.

Victor looked around with a smile, as if he had already won. “I want you to go up to the fortress, Minako. We will follow after you. Two or three days of cannon fire and we will storm the fortress.”

The sun set slowly, casting shadows over the bay, it gleamed off the tops of the minarets and set.

Victor entered the main tent where the table was already set. He sat down and ate hungrily, not waiting for anyone else to join him.

Celestino removed his armour and poured Hungarian wine into one of the lead goblets on the table.

“To the health of the first bombardier!” he toasted.

The other generals raised their glasses and a cry passed through the whole encampment.

Victor gave a single nod of acknowledgement.

Yes, it all seemed easy in his mind: take the fortress, conquer the Sea of Azov, take the Black Sea, and return with a victory so he could…

That evening he slept outside where he could see the stars. He thought again of the passionate promise he had given that night as he closed his eyes.

 

_Yuuri’s eyes held all the stars of the sky. His smile was warmer than the sun. When he leaned forward to press a kiss to Victor’s cheek, he could feel his skin burn at the touch._

_They walked together along the shore of the Sea of Azov and Yuuri’s head rested on Victor’s shoulder._

_Yuuri raised his head and looked into Victor’s eyes. “I love you,” he whispered and faded away…_

Morning came and Minako’s troops marched for the fortress. Just as the soldiers at the front began to climb the small hill in front of the fortress someone shouted, “They’re coming! Bring out the cannons!”

Arrows flew through the air and they saw several thousand Tatars marching out to meet them.

Cannons fired, people fell, the army got confused, turning from marching soldiers into a disorganized crowd. People screamed. What was happening? Where was everyone? What…?

The smoke cleared and Minako could be seen, sitting on her horse, her armour gleaming, her helmet lost, knocked off by a cannonball. She raised the telescope in her hand with a smile.

“Onwards!” she called out over the screams. “Onwards! Have courage!”

They took their position near the fortress, digging up trenches and building walls for cover.

The soldiers in the fortress fired cannons at them, spreading fear among the Russian ranks. Each time one of the balls landed and turned around on the spot with a loud hiss soldiers, officers, streltsy – everyone who had been sent to this war – dropped to the ground and covered themselves with their arms. These were not the fake cannons thrown around by the toy army once, full of nothing but peas. They exploded with a deafening noise, throwing up columns of soil, making the soldiers tremble in fear and cross themselves, unable to do anything else.

Only Minako remained unaffected by the cannon fire. She walked calmly among her soldiers, not turning at the hissing of the cannonball and shouted at the people dropping before each shot.

“I will punish everyone who bows to shots fired by the enemy!” She pulled one of the men to his feet. “Coward! Shame on you! You call yourself a soldier?”

As she had predicted, they struggled with provisions, especially with getting drinking water. The Tatars attacked the carts loaded with provisions and then escaped into the steppe before they could be attacked in return.

Once the trenches were dug out and ready the rest of the army joined Minako’s troops before the fortress.

Victor marched at the head of the other bombardiers. Chris and several of Victor’s other friends marched behind him like common soldiers.

He entered the trenches and climbed up to get a better look.

“Look out!” several men called out at once.

A rifle fired from the fortress and shot the telescope out of Victor’s hands.

He jumped down and a cold smile appeared on his face. “Bring me a cannon,” he ordered.

They brought one out for him. He loaded it expertly and aimed it at the fortress. “With God’s blessing, here is the first one. Back!”

They moved out of his way and he fired.

 

Under Azov’s tall defensive walls it was hard to believe they had intended to capture the fortress in one quick attack.

They spent two weeks firing cannons at the fortress, managing only to knock one of the towers over. Fires broke out inside.

But more reinforcements came. The fires were put out and the fortress stood as unbreakable as ever.

In the night men slipped into the camp and killed soldiers who stood on watch as well as any sleeping soldiers they could find.

And just as they captured the lookout tower that stood over the Don River, taking the river for their own, the weather itself turned against them.

The days were hot, full of nothing but laziness. Soldiers wandered about half-asleep, looking for shade to hide in. No one wanted to fight. The scorching sun blazed in the sky, crickets sang in the grass and flies refused to leave anyone alone. Following an old tradition, after lunch everyone from the general to the cook slept, filling the encampment with the sound of loud snores. Even the watchmen kept nodding off.

It was impossible to fight in such hot and sticky conditions.

Minako, irritated by this laziness, gathered the generals and announced that the soldiers were not putting enough care into building the trenches, that if the troop defending the fortress decided to launch an attack in earnest, it would not end well.

“War is no joke, dear generals,” she concluded. “We are responsible for the lives of our people and, yet, everyone acts as if it is nothing more than a game! Do I need to remind you that we are no longer in Preobrazhenskoye?”

Celestino’s face went pale with anger.

“In a war it is important to be scared of your enemy, dear generals!”

“Scared? I do not fear them!” one of the other generals declared.

“We will crush Azov like a fly!” someone else added.

“Azov is no fly,” Minako countered calmly.

They called her a coward and a fight almost broke out. She put a hand on the hilt of her sword, her eyes flashing dangerously, daring them all to attack her.

“Enough!” Victor exclaimed. But he gave no order, no resolution had come from their council.

That afternoon while everyone slept a group of Turks slipped out of the fortress and killed dozens more of sleeping soldiers. Some awoke in a panic and tried to run, but they many of them were caught.

The whole camp was in an uproar. Soldiers ran, forgetting themselves and everything around them, tripping over other soldiers and or waking them up with their screams.

Victor watched, his fists clenched. Giving orders now would be nothing more than a waste of breath.

And then, as if remembering who they were, soldiers grabbed their weapons and launched into a disorganized attack.

Cannons fired, but these were the ones in the fortress: the Turks were retreating and taking with them some of the weapons the Russian army had brought to this war.

Scattered soldiers gathered into a disorganized line and gave chase.

“My horse!” Victor ordered, stamping his foot.

But no one was listening to the Tsar. Chris galloped by on a horse, shouting and waving his sword, joining the fight gleefully. Drums thundered, barely distinguishable above all the noise.

Something happened then. The Turks ran back to the walls. The gates opened and a crowd spilled out. Someone charged out past them on a white horse.

The crackling of gunfire filled the air, followed by a terrible scream and Victor felt fear grip his heart. It froze him to his spot, keeping him as nothing more than a spectator of the events unfolding before his eyes.

The Russian army turned and fled. Defeated! Defeated!

 

They lost 500 people in that battle. In the days that followed Victor avoided looking at the fortress where the Turks laughed and taunted their attacks, shouting rude words from the walls. They slept well, indeed!

Chris showed off his bloodied sword to anyone who would wished to see it and even anyone who had no such wish. He was a big hero now.

Celestino and the other generals (with the exception of Minako) vanished into the trenches and all that could be seen of their soldiers were the swinging shovels throwing dirt up and out of their way.

Victor felt the full weight of his ill luck. He wandered about silent and furious like a thundercloud. People avoided getting in his way, more than one person felt the force of his anger, when he caught them idling about. Azov had to be taken no matter what!

He sat at night below the stars and asked Minako about other wars as Yuuri’s image appeared before his eyes.

He would not let it all slip away from him. He refused to allow it.

“Look to your provisions,” Minako advised. “The soldier who is well-fed is a soldier who is happy and willing to fight for their country.”

Victor spent days in the trenches, digging and eating with the other soldiers. And always she thought “how? How do I make Azov mine?”

The fortress stood on a hill and across from it, out in the middle of the Don River was an island, which, while empty, presented a perfect position for his troops.

One of the generals was sent there with several hundred soldiers.

The Turks, realizing all the danger of their situation, gathered a large force and sent it to the river. They started to cross the Don River, in full view of everyone else, to get to the other side to knock the Russians off the island.

Minako gathered her troops and cannons and rushed to their aid as soon as she saw what they were doing.

The Turks stopped midway. Everyone froze where they were.

Victor stood on a hill, overlooking the fight, unable to understand what was happening. What was he supposed to do at a time like this? He was afraid of ruining everything and hesitated.

The Turks retreated and Minako returned to the army camp with triumphant music and banners flying in the wind. The battle was won without firing a single shot.

After another day of cannon fire Victor wanted to storm the fortress and climb the walls. Minako talked him out of it, persuading him that instead they write to the commandant of the fortress and offer him a chance to surrender.

Two messengers were sent with an official paper, bearing all the proper seals. They were pushed out of the gates almost right away. In the hands of one of them was the offer of surrender, covered in curse words written in Russian.

There was no use arguing after that, but still Minako tried to explain that no one stormed fortress walls without blowing a hole in them first. None of the generals wanted to listen to her.

Victor stared at the candles on the table, as if mesmerized. He could already hear the triumphant trumpeting. He could already taste victory.

“We will storm the walls,” he said at last and refused to listen to any more arguments on the subject.

 

A call went out for volunteers. Officers were promised five and twenty rubles, soldiers – ten, for every cannon of the enemy they succeeded in capturing. The army priests walked among the soldiers, trying to talk them into sacrificing themselves for their country, but most of them were met with nothing but the backs of people not wishing to hear a word of it and angry muttering.

They found their volunteers in the end – two and a half thousand Cossacks agreed to go under the condition that they would be given time to rob the fortress. Most of them had grown up near Azov and longed to get their hands on the goods in the fortress.

Having no other choice, Victor granted them permission.

The night before the storm Minako and Victor sat up late. She said very little while Victor spoke. She could see that he felt a deep need to speak his mind, as if it had filled to the point of overflowing with thoughts in the past few days.

“When the winter comes,” he said softly, “we will build our navy in Voronezh. We must take Azov tomorrow. We must.” There was an urgency in his voice that almost made Minako smile. She knew what was at stake here. The other generals had no idea, with possibly the exception of Celestino, but she had watched Victor long enough to understand what was happening in his heart.

“We will take it and build a second fortress. The Sea of Azov will be ours. Then further down – we will place another fortress at Kerch and soon the whole Black Sea will belong to us. Crimea we will take from the sea. After that we are almost at the Mediterranean Sea, we dig a new canal to the Don River and then Moscow sends its goods to Tsaritsyno, but now it is a straight trip from Moscow to Rome. Then we will become merchants.” He gave a heavy sigh and dropped his chin onto his hands dreamily. “And I will finally get to marry…” he breathed out.

Minako sat silently, not daring to move or make a single noise that will remind Victor that he had spoken the words aloud to someone else.

“I will have the most beautiful man – no, the most beautiful and intelligent person in the whole world by my side and together we will do anything we like. Conquer the world, if we want to.”

Minako turned away. It troubled her to see the Tsar so in love with a common man. She could see no good outcome to this mad marriage for anyone, especially Yuuri, whose family had been friends of her for quite some time.

“Will we take Azov tomorrow, Minako?” Victor asked in a pleading tone of voice.

She considered this question seriously. She knew what answer he wanted to hear, but her conscience did not allow her to lie to him. “I do not know,” she admitted after a long pause and sighed. “I had time to study the soldiers. They understand little about war. They think they can storm the walls of a fortress without ladders. Many are regretting coming here and others have resigned themselves to dying. But,” she paused and a twinkle appeared in her eye, “as you would say, if you call yourself a mushroom – into the basket you go. Everything is ready. Everyone who volunteered will go.” She raised her rifle threateningly. “I will see to that.”

Still Victor was restless. He woke Chris up and they went to pay a visit to the volunteers. The Cossacks slept like people without a single care in the world. Their ataman, their leader, was there to reassure the Tsar himself.

Dawn crept in slowly and the Cossacks rose to slip away into the fading darkness, circle the fortress and start their attack from the side of the river.

Minako’s troops attacked from a different side.

But no one got far. The Russian troops, hearing a terrifying clanging of steel, hid in a nearby wood. The Cossacks, meanwhile, found that their ladders were too short for the walls of the fortress. But even with a longer ladder it was hard to climb a wall when the Turks above were dropping large stones on their heads, or pouring hot tar over them.

When the sun rose they saw the piles of corpses at the foot of the walls. Then they really knew fear.

Why climb up there? What would that achieve? Was it not better to stay here, far from people trying to kill you? This was will kill them all! Only the generals will return to Moscow with their lives.

The generals gathered with the Tsar once more. They looked broken and defeated. Minako had a melancholy expression on her face. Celestino was avoiding Victor’s eye. From their whole group only Chris was smiling: he had climbed the walls, fought and returned with his life. No one in the whole world could take it away from him.

“Well?” Victor asked, straightening up in his seat as the generals stood around him. “What do you say to this? Have we dishonoured ourselves completely? Do we end the siege now and go home?”

They were silent. No one knew how to answer such a question. The generals dared not look at each other, feeling like children told off for bad behaviour.

Chris stepped forward. “It is not my place to speak at a time like this, or before all of you at this council,” he began, “but since I was on the wall myself…” a smile appeared briefly on his face at those words. “We cannot win if we try to storm the walls again. What we should do is weaken them, break right through them.” He stepped back and added nothing more.

Minako spoke up next. “I agree, but breaking through those walls is dangerous and will take a lot of time and I dare remind you all that we are running out of food.”

“Maybe we should move the siege to next year,” Celestino said cautiously. The war had beaten most of his usual merriment out of him.

The look Victor threw at them all at the sound of those words made even Minako tremble.

“We will start tonight,” Victor decided. “And there will be food.”

 

The siege went on. Emboldened by their success, the Turks attacked night and day, without taking a break. Many soldiers died in these attacks. Other soldiers vanished without a trace, without warning anyone.

Big dark clouds rolled in from over the Black Sea and brought storms the likes of which few in the Russian army had ever seen. Lightning flashed, thunder shook the Earth and water filled the trenches.

Fall crept in with the storms, bringing with it cold grey days. No one had thought to bring warm clothes for the army. Diseases spread at an alarming rate along with more angry whispers. And every day more and more reinforcements arrived to help out the Turks.

Victor was so terrifying in those days that only Celestino dared to talk to him about ending the siege. But the talks all lead to nothing.

This stubbornness surprised him and he spoke about it to Minako who merely smiled and said nothing.

 

No one thought it was possible to work with as much determination as Victor demanded, but it turned out that they could do it after all. It was mid-September when they managed to dig their way right up to the walls.

The engineer in charge of the digging reported to Victor that he could hear some sort of noise from the other end. The Tsar followed him in and listened carefully. There really was a strange noise. What did it mean? Were the Turks making some sort of preparations on their end?

It was decided right there to blow it up right away. The tunnel was filled with gunpowder, Victor lit the fuse and everyone ran for cover.

The Turks on the walls nearest to them ran as well.

The silence that followed was only broken by the shouts of the crows as they flew over the Don River.

And then a big explosion shook the area. It raised a column of fire, dust, smoke, dirt and rocks into the air and dropped it onto the trenches dug up by the Russian army. People were tossed up into the air like little stones as the explosion claimed another hundred lives.

Terror filled the soldiers’ hearts as they scrambled for safety, but it was nothing compared to what they felt when the smoke cleared and everyone saw the Turks laughing at them from their unharmed walls.

 

Victor ran through the camp in the days that followed, even more furious than before. They tried another attack, but it only resulted in deaths on their side and nothing more.

The soldiers were too frightening to attack in earnest. As they got close to the fortress in each new strike, they would drop their weapons and sit down on the ground. “Kill us here,” they would say. We have no strength to go on.”

Three days went by. Silence descended onto the fortress and the army camp. Only birds could be heard, circling over the fields.

Late at night the siege was over. Without lighting a single fire or making a great deal of noise, the army took what little remained of its provisions and its cannons and left, moving along the Don River.

Morning dawned and brought with it another storm that pursued them, claiming more human lives.

By the time they got to Cherkassk only a third of the original army remained.

Victor did not follow the army all the way back to Moscow: he made for Tula with a group of his most trusted people.

He sent two letters. One was for Yuuri and the other was addressed to Prince Romodanovsky.

 

 _Mein herr koenig_ ,

_Upon our return from unconquered Azov the council of generals ordered me to build ships, galleys and other means of travelling the sea in preparation for the next war._

_With God’s blessing, in good health,_

_Victor._

Thus the first Azov campaign ended – bringing with it no fame and no honour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this deep need of seeing art of Victor as Peter the Great, so I got [this beautiful commission](http://witharthurkirkland.tumblr.com/post/171069942533/a-beautiful-commission-made-for-me-by-claramarla). If you’re wondering where that excerpt is from, well… give me some time, please.  
> I never know if I need to provide definitions at the end of each chapter. I keep using old units of measurements, like the verst, which is equal to 1.07 of a kilometer, or 0.67 miles. The Cossacks are a group of Slavic people living in the south of Russia. In my mind, I always associate them with the Don River. They usually elect a leader and he is called the ataman.  
> If anyone has questions, let me know.  
> Also, I realized that too often I will try to write down the Russian word in English letters, hoping that would work and when Word doesn’t complain, I assume that it’s okay, only to find out that I used the wrong spelling, so if anyone spots a typo, please let me know. I did my best to double-check the spelling, but I suspect I missed something somewhere...


	13. The Long Wait

_My dear Yuuri,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know you will hear this from countless others, but I dare not write about it myself. I am, if anything, more determined than before to keep the promise I made to you. Unfortunately this means a longer separation than I had initially thought. Be strong, dear Yuuri, I will do everything in my power to hasten our reunion._

_Your Victor_

Defeated! After all of weeks of silence, mad hope and agonized waiting Yuuri read the letter in disbelief and dropped onto the chair by the window.

Outside the fall was giving way to winter, as the days grew shorter and colder. The trees stood barren. No bird appeared in the sky, no animal dared to tread the ground.

Giving a heavy sigh, he read the letter once more.

Here he was, locked away like a bird in a gilded cage, while Victor went to and fro, building ships, assembling an army and fighting.

Yuuri tossed the letter aside and paced the room.

How long was he expected to wait like this?

A pile of books lay on the table. One of them was opened to a page with a map of the Black and Azov Seas. He bent over it and imagined once more how Victor would conquer both the land and seas shown.

Evening came and Yuuri left his room to join his parents. There were little tasks about the house for him to do. He would not burn candles while alone in his room. His parents could not afford to use so many each day.

The sound of a horse’s hooves hitting the road outside their house made Yuuri’s heart beat faster.

 _No, no_ , he told himself. _It is some merchant returning with his wares, or, perhaps, leaving with them…_

A knock came on the door and Yuuri froze on the spot.

His father answered the door and a tall figure stepped inside. It was dark by the door and, so, it was difficult to make out any of the visitor’s features, but that did not keep Yuuri from recognizing him. There was only one person that it could possibly be.

Yuuri rushed towards their late visitor and got caught in a tight embrace. A mouth pressed against his and he forgot that his parents were there, giving into the kiss completely.

 “Yuuri…” Victor whispered as he pulled away. “Yuuri,” he murmured again into the boy’s ear.

They exchanged another kiss and Yuuri clung tighter to Victor. “You must be tired,” he whispered at last. “Tired and hungry.”

Victor pulled away. “I cannot stay. I must continue my journey.”

Yuuri’s mother joined them then, a candle in her hand. “Will Your Majesty do us the honour of taking dinner with us?” she asked.

Yuuri took in Victor’s appearance. He was so thin now that his uniform hung awkwardly on his frame. He was exhausted and hungry, there was no doubt in Yuuri’s mind about this.

And, yet, he did his best to smile as he declined this offer. “I would do so gladly any other time, believe me, but I must be in Voronezh as soon as possible. I was supposed to head there straight from Tula, but I needed to see you, if only for a moment.”

Yuuri placed his head on Victor’s shoulder, holding the Tsar in his embrace. “I worry about you every day.”

Victor chuckled softly.

It was hard to say goodbye, to pull apart, after that. Yuuri expected his heart to shatter when Victor left once more, but it held together as he ran out onto the street to watch the Tsar vanish into the night.

The wait continued.

 

Two years went by. Those who yelled – bit their tongue, those who laughed – went silent. Many big changes happened in that time. Foreign ideas swept into everything, into every crack, spreading out further and further.

The boyars, the old aristocratic families, the priests and the streltsy were terrified of changes, of new things and new people. They hated the speed with which these changes came, they hated the new people put in charge of everything. What sort of a life was this? It was no life, but a race.

But those who had no rank and no inheritance, they loved the new regime. Here was a chance to move up in the world, here was a chance to make their mark on it and, what was more, improve their situation. They weren’t wrong to trust in the new Tsar – he was exactly how they expected and wanted him to be.

The Tsar that returned from the failure and shame of Azov was completely different from the one that had left. The battle had made him more mature, given him more determination.

He appeared briefly in Moscow and left for Voronezh. And there he built his new navy. Two ships and twenty three galleys were put together there. The winter was colder than usual. There was never enough of anything and people died in the hundreds.

The new year started with many hardships and, yet, by springtime a new navy was built. New commanders and engineers were brought in from Holland. Many provisions were placed in Cherkassk and in May Victor appeared before Azov in one of his new galleys. Another army attacked from the land.

The Turks in the fortress did all they could, putting up a desperate fight, but when they ran out of bread and gunpowder, they surrendered.

This was not a victory of Russia over the Ottoman Empire, but that of Kukuy over Moscow.

Victor built a new fortress near the defeated one, named it Taganrog, and placed an army there. More ships were built, and more armies gathered.

Victor dug the canal he talked about to Minako.

He arrived in Moscow in person to announce his will to the boyars and no one dared say a word against him. Fear kept their mouths shut.

The Tsar listened to no arguments, no advice. He knew precisely what he wanted and that was what he got. The boyars had become nothing more than a sleeping remnant of the past.

Each boyar with land and serfs was ordered to build ships for the navy, the number of serfs and the sizes of their lands dictating how many ships each boyars was responsible for.

His next order was for the children of the noble families to prepare for travelling to Europe in a month’s time and studying there. Each of the young men and women sent abroad was to have a soldier accompany them for their protection.

The old boyars and boyarinas gathered their children, blessed them for the journey and spoke, cried and prayed as if the children were about to go to their deaths. They could not bear to part from their children, but they were too terrified of the Tsar to plea for permission to keep their children in Russia.

The taking of Azov was a dangerous move: this brought with it the beginning of a war with the entire Ottoman Empire. There was barely enough strength to take on a measly fortress, where could they find the strength to take on an entire empire?

Victor and his generals understood it well: they had felt it themselves under the walls of the fortress. What they needed now more than ever were allies and who could give that but Europe itself?

This meant sending an official embassy and asking for help. Victor understood that to get the most out of their supposed allies, he had to go himself, but he kept delaying and putting it off.

There was one important matter he had to take care of that had to be seen to before he left. The Tsar was making big changes in his court in preparation for a big event, possibly the most important event in his life.

And just as everyone expected to hear an announcement an uprising near Azov called for the Tsar’s attention and he left with a small army to fight to regain control of the land.

 

Time passed, days came in a big crowd, one after the next. Yuuri waited each day for some news, any news, but still there was no word from the Tsar.

How long would he be stuck waiting like this? How many weeks was he expected to merely sit at home, hoping for the best?

One morning before the sun rose Yuuri slipped out of his room, saddled a horse and left.

He had taken the time to study maps of the roads he needed to take. He had made all the necessary preparations for his journey and left completely alone.

He spared no thought for what could become of him out there without anyone for company or protection. He had little skill with weapons, but that would not stop him.

The man who many already called the consort of the Tsar of all the Russias left without telling anyone where he had gone, trusting in his luck to protect him.

 

Victor rose early that morning. It was the hour before dawn. Someone had stumbled into the place where he slept. Preferring to sleep under the stars, the Tsar slept between his tent and those of Chris and Celestino.

“Your Majesty!” the man who woke him up stammered out.

He jumped to his feet right away. He had learned several years ago that when the commander of an army was woken up early it was rarely because of urgent good news.

“Your Majesty!” It was one of the soldiers. He froze in fear and bowed repeatedly. “Forgive me. Please, I had no wish to –”

“What is it?” he demanded impatiently.

“You have a visitor.”

“A visitor? At this ungodly hour? Who can it be?” His eyes widened in surprise, wondering who it could possibly be. Who would come all this way to see him?

Perhaps it was a messenger from Moscow.

A figure stumbled forward. The man was in tattered clothing, covered in dirt from head to toe. He could barely stand on his feet. In fact, when he stood, he swayed.

“Y-Your Majesty…” he mumbled and passed out.

Victor stepped forward and caught him as he fell. “Yuuri!” he exclaimed in alarm. “What brings you here?”

He lowered Yuuri onto his coat, which had served as his bed for the past week. He felt Yuuri’s hands. They were cold.

“Yuuri,” he whispered, leaning over him. “Oh, Yuuri…”

His eyelids flickered. “I wanted to… and I found you…” he mumbled and passed out.

 

Yuuri’s eyes snapped open and he sat up sharply, remembering the reason for his travels. “I must find V-”

“Yuuri,” a voice cut in soothingly.

He turned his head and noticed Chris standing before him. He bowed and only then did Yuuri realize that he was inside a tent, lying in a bed. “Good evening, Yuuri Toshiyevich.”

“G-good evening,” Yuuri said, clutching a blanket to his chest.

“Well, now that you are awake…” Chris said and stepped outside.

Victor rushed in almost right away, dropping down next to the bed at Yuuri’s side.

“You are awake! Thank God!” He kissed Yuuri’s hand. “I was worried!”

Yuuri smiled. “I came to fight by your side. This time you cannot order me to stay at home!”

“You cannot fight,” Victor contradicted him calmly. He poured a cup of water for Yuuri and handed it to him.

“Why ever not?” Yuuri demanded.

“Because the battle is over,” Victor replied simply. “It was over when you arrived.”

“But then…” Yuuri began and blushed.

“I was engaged in other matters,” Victor calmed him. “Now they are complete and we can return home.” He gave Yuuri’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Yuuri leaned forward, captivated by the expression in the Tsar’s eyes.

The Tsar rose to his feet and called Chris into the tent. “Make certain that Yuuri does not want for anything.” He paused at the entrance of the tent and gave Yuuri another smile before exiting.

Chris stood respectfully.

Yuuri looked to Chris for an explanation.

“His Majesty guarded you while you slept,” Chris explained. “He would not allow anyone but the doctor to enter his tent.”

“His Majesty?” Yuuri repeated.

“Yes. He slept outside the tent while he waited for you to wake up,” Chris went on.

Yuuri fidgeted nervously. “How long was I asleep for?” Yuuri asked.

“Since this morning.”

Chris asked if there was anything Yuuri wanted and when Yuuri admitted he was hungry left to bring him food.

Yuuri ate and Chris brought new clothes for him to wear, promising to wait outside.

 

Victor stood on a hill, facing away from his army, lost deep in thought. He had given the order for everyone to make their preparations to return to Moscow and was waiting for someone to let him know that the army was ready to go.

The sound of footsteps made him turn and he saw Yuuri climbing the hill. He was dressed in the new clothes Victor had ordered for him. They suited him well.

“Your Majesty,” Yuuri bowed. “Thank you for your protection. I apologize –”

Victor took Yuuri’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “There is no reason to apologize. Are you feeling better?”

Yuuri gave a nod. Victor released his hand and turned to the wide steppe he had been contemplating before Yuuri’s arrival. “My country is beautiful, is it not?”

Yuuri stepped forward and Victor held out his arm. Yuuri placed a hand on it with some hesitation. “It is beautiful,” he agreed.

“Do you like it?” the Tsar asked softly, rewarding Yuuri with a smile.

Yuuri opened his mouth, ready to point out to His Majesty that he dared not dislike it and saw the expression on His Majesty’s face. “Yes,” he whispered, his heart beating fast.

Victor gave a nod and looked out into the distance. “The people need changing. The country is large and slow with all the grace of a bear and yet…” he went silent.

 _And yet it is your country_ , Yuuri thought. He stepped closer to Victor. Something in Victor’s tone made Yuuri feel as though he was offering his country to him.

“Your Majesty.” They both turned at the sound of Celestino’s voice. “The men are ready to leave.”

Victor nodded. He turned away from the steppe to throw one last look at the Azov fortress in the distance and descended the hill.

 

Never had Victor enjoyed a trip as much as he enjoyed that one. They sailed up the Don River in a dozen ships. The generals tried to whisper warnings into his ear. His awkward new navy needed improvement. Everything needed doing, redoing and looking over, but Yuuri was at his side, giving him the impression that he could do anything.

In the daytime they watched the men scramble about the ship and go about their duties. In the nighttime they would retire to their cabins. Evenings were spent in contemplation of the stars. They said little to each other, but they did not need words to understand one another. Yuuri would rest his head on Victor’s shoulder.

Victor felt better, happier in Yuuri’s presence. He felt ready to do anything.

Everyone  treated Yuuri with the same respect as they did him and it pleased him. One time when he spotted a man bowing to Yuuri when the boy asked him a question Victor was ready to reward him with gold coins.

But he did not trust himself alone with Yuuri and they always remained within sight of everyone else.

The Tsar had no way of knowing, of course, that the crew was watching them both closely, or that the generals had a bet going on the date of the wedding.

Upon their return to Moscow Victor accompanied Yuuri back to his home and worried parents, and left him in their care with the promise of paying them all a visit as soon as he could.

 

Two weeks went by and one morning while Yuuri sat by the window, reading a book about the art of war when his father came in, followed closely by a visitor.

Yuuri looked up curiously from the pages of his book.

A tall well-built man stood before him, his hat in his hands. “G-good morning.” He bowed. “I received many new books this morning,” he began, stuttering and stumbling over his words, “and… knowing your interest in them,” he threw a sideways look at the books on the table, “and I wished to offer them to you.”

Yuuri, who went to great lengths to procure what few books he had, was happy to hear this. “I will only take one or two,” he said. “I only have enough money for that.”

The man bowed. “Take more, I insist,” he said. “You can take them all, if you like, and pay me later.”

Yuuri was only too happy to accept this offer.

After the man came another arrived in his room, offering him the mechanical clock that Yuuri had once admired and said how much he liked it.

Yuuri tried to refuse, but the man insisted and insisted until Yuuri gave in to the inevitable: he had to take it, or the man would never leave.

Another merchant came and brought fruit for their family. Another one followed not long after. The flow of visitors never seemed to run out.

Yuuri locked himself away and refused to see anyone else, leaving the task of accepting or refusing the gifts to his parents.

Why were they all here now? What did this mean?

He crept up to the window and peered outside, taking care to remain hidden from view of any passerby in the street.

A familiar figure came galloping on a horse and Yuuri left his room to greet him.

His parents admitted Chris into the house just as he joined them. He walked in, bowing respectfully to everyone in the house and asking after the health of each person in the room.

Yuuri waited for Victor’s latter, barely able to contain his impatience.

“His Majesty sends his best wishes,” Chris told him. “But I am here not from him. I have important news for you. I know rumour can travel fast, but I thought it best to let you know things just as they are in case you hear different from anyone else.”

Yuuri felt his heart beat faster.

“Today the Tsar signed an executive order that the ruling monarch may select their heir, regardless of their rank or station.”

Yuuri dropped into a chair.

Chris bowed respectfully. “I will waste no time explaining what this means. I merely wished to prepare you for what is about to come.”

“Thank you.” His heart beat at a mad pace in his chest, but a smile illuminated his face.

“If I can be of any service…” Chris began.

Yuuri rose to his feet. “Thank you.”

To the surprise of everyone in the room, Chris dropped to one knee before Yuuri and kissed his hand. He jumped to his feet, bowed to Yuuri’s mother and then his father, and left with the words. “At any time of day or night, if you need anything, let me know.”

The door closed behind him.

Hiroko and Toshiya both looked to Yuuri for an explanation.

But how could he hope to explain the situation? He could barely find his voice, let alone the words required to tell them about the inheritance laws in Russia.

The ruling monarch had to marry a person who would ensure that the royal bloodline would continue, but, with one stroke of a pen, the Tsar found a way to go around this law. And, so, the long wait was over at last.

He struggled to form words to explain this, but what came out was something incoherent and his parents failed to understand.

It was quiet in the house after Chris’s visit. The evening came and Yuuri sat up with his parents, helping them sort through all the gifts they had received.

 

A warm morning greeted them the next day. Yuuri, feeling too restless to read, was out in the garden among the flowers when he heard the clatter of wheels on the road. Fear and instinct sent him back inside the house and into his room where he hid from the rest of the world. He leaned against his door as his heart beat madly in his chest.

Hiroko and Toshiya, who were used to all manner of visitors, were not prepared for these.

Mila Babicheva, daughter of one of the richest boyars, entered the house, dressed in clothes that befitted her noble bloodline. She bowed respectfully, all the way down, as if she was a mere commoner and they were rich boyars.

They had met her before. As soon as word of Victor’s triumph at Azov reached Moscow, she was among the first to realize what would happen next. She had travelled to the house of the Katsuki family and befriended them all. It was not just a political move, but a friendly gesture. She liked Yuuri for his intelligence and the respect he had given her.

Now here she was, dressed up as if for a big holiday and with a playful smile on her face.

“I have some visitors for you,” she said, still standing in front of the doorway. “Word has reached our ears that you have a beautiful son, ready for marriage.”

Yuuri’s parents were so stunned by these words that they did not know what to say.

Mila swept into the room. “You have many guests coming, so make yourselves ready.”

Still they did not know what to say. They bowed to hide their embarrassment.

Chris was the first to enter the house. He took a place at one of the walls and watched everything with a smile on his face. He was better prepared for what was about to happen than Yuuri’s parents were, but even he had not anticipated everything that Mila would say.

The generals of the Russian army came in next. They all bore serious expressions on their faces.

Hiroko came to her senses at the sight of them and sat them all at the table. She brought out food for all of them, but no one touched anything.

The Tsar entered last. He was dressed in a new uniform. His face was red as he came in and he hesitated as soon as he entered. He searched around the room with his eyes and opened his mouth, but before he could say a word Mila offered him one of the empty chairs by the table.

Turning a deeper shade of crimson, he dropped into it without saying another word.

Mila smiled at Hiroko and Toshiya. “I brought a worthy husband for your son,” she said, “but the decision is yours.”

Victor shot her a look, but said nothing.

“He is a brave man and shows a lot of promise,” Mila went on. “He is very determined.”

Everyone waited for Hiroko or Toshiya to say something.

On the other side of the door to his room Yuuri waited, feeling as though his heart would stop any minute.

Mila laughed. “But, perhaps, Victor Alexeyevich doesn’t please you for some reason? Do you have some grievance against him? Has he offended you in some way in the past?”

No one dared say a word, wondering what Yuuri’s parents would say or do. Even Victor had a terrified expression on his face. What would they say? What would he do if they disapproved of this marriage?

Yuuri was old enough now to marry whoever he wished without needing the consent of his parents, but he held their opinion in high regard and would not go against their wishes.

Hiroko walked over to Victor, hesitated and then gave him her warmest smile. “It would be a great honour for me to accept you as my son,” she said and kissed his forehead.

It was impossible to wait any longer now. Yuuri opened his door and steppedout. They all turned to watch him rush to Victor’s side.

Victor rose to his feet. “What do you say, Yuuri? Will you take me?”

“Yes,” Yuuri said.

Victor enveloped him in an embrace and pressed his mouth against Yuuri’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for an old-fashioned wedding?


	14. A Royal Wedding

Victor wanted a wedding similar to that of Jean-Jacques XIV, but everyone, all of his friends and allies, talked him out of it. Not only was he marrying a foreigner, but a commoner and even a boy, they all reminded him. If he was so determined to break all the rules and traditions, could he not keep this one at the very least?

After several arguments that went back and forth he finally agreed.

As luck would have it, Yuuri’s parents had long ago decided that it would be wise to raise both of their children in the religion of the country they had made their new home, despite the religious freedom enjoyed by the other foreigners. They attended church regularly with their son and daughter.

And, yet, despite this, the bishop at the palace church refused to marry the Tsar to a boy. Victor had some words with him in private and got his way in the end.

The morning of the wedding they brought Yuuri to the palace. There had been some confusion about who would wait on him, but they settled on the servant girls at the palace. They had laughed and joked until the boyarinas, the daughters and wives of the boyars, arrived. Their stern looks alone were enough to put an end to the all the merriment.

They washed Yuuri in a banya first and rubbed oils into his skin as he stood with his eyes lowered, embarrassed of being undressed in front of so many people. All the while the servant girls sang incessantly, with barely a moment to draw breath.

When other servant girls brought his clothes he stared numbly at them, feeling as if they belonged to another person. And they did. These were not the clothes of Yuuri Katsuki, or even those of Yuuri Toshiyevich. These belonged to Tsarevich Yuuri, consort of the Tsar.

Yuuri closed his eyes. He did his best to tell himself that he was Tsarevich Yuuri, but failed to convince himself.

Who was this Tsarevich? When would he arrive?

This title was Victor’s idea. He was awarded it officially the day before their wedding and his parents were granted titles as well. Now they would sit with the other boyars in the palace and advise the Tsar on political matters.

The boyarinas raised his arms and legs to dress him. He felt the fabric slip over his skin and then came another shirt and another, covered in jewels images of animals and trees were sewn into his long sleeves. A belt covered in gold and more precious stones circled his waist, tied so tight it was hard to draw breath. Someone whispered that twenty seamstresses worked for seven days and seven nights on his wedding clothes.

Several boyarinas dropped to their knees to pull a pair of sharp-toed boots onto his feet. Once they lowered his legs he swayed forward a little and they had to catch him before he fell.

They slipped gold and silver rings onto all of his fingers. One of the boyarinas stepped forward slowly, a casket in her outstretched arms. Another one raised the lid and pulled out the diadem inside. It reminded Yuuri of a city and cut sharply into his scalp as they lowered it onto his head.

It was midafternoon when they finished. Yuuri sat on a pillow by the window, waiting for the day to end, his heart beating fast against his ribs.

Several small chests lay beside him, full of presents form the Tsar: animals made out of sugar, little hard apples, nuts and raisins. More still lay on his other side, full of jewellery and furs.

His father was in the next room, smiling nervously at Yuuri’s mother. They watched the servants come and go with their eyes open wide in surprise. The boyarinas kept them away from the preparations just in case they did something wrong.

“How is Yuuri?” they would ask the boyarinas that walked by, but only got solemn shakes of the head in return.

They all looked down at Yuuri’s parents, deeming them and their son unworthy of this great honour the Tsar had bestowed upon them all.

The Tsar himself was elsewhere. He was not allowed to see his husband until the wedding began and left to take a boat ride down the Yauza River with Chris.

Yuuri had received a short note from the Tsar that morning. It had arrived with a servant at the first crack of dawn.

 

_He read it, kissed it and slipped it under his pillow. He sat up and studied his room, committing every detail to memory._

_This was the room of Yuuri Katsuki. It was no longer his room._

Yuuri sat alone by the window now and listened for the sound of footsteps, voices, or anything else that would tell him of the arrival of the Tsar.

The servant girls were starting to lose their voices and still they sang on. Yuuri wished he could ask them to stop. Not only was their singing wearing him out, but it was also starting to terrify him.

Mila Babicheva, who had taken the role of the matchmaker for their wedding and who was in charge of all these preparations, entered the room and gave him a big smile. “Look at how beautiful the groom is!” she exclaimed. “Does it not delight your heart to look at him?”

Everyone in the room mumbled words of agreement.

“What manner of preparations do you call this?” Mila demanded, turning away from Yuuri and directing her fury at everyone else. “You forgot the most important part! What is the meaning of this? Where is the cover?” She frowned and studied Yuuri. “Do we cover him?” she asked herself in a whisper.

A bride had to be covered, but what about the male consort of the Tsar?

A twinkle appeared in Mila’s eyes. “Cover him anyway,” she ordered.

They brought out a long white veil embroidered with all manner of flowers and leaves, and covered Yuuri with it. It let very little light through and Yuuri now had to be led by the hand wherever he went.

“Now,” Mila went on, “I need dancers. How many do we have?”

“Ten,” one of the boyarinas answered promptly.

“Ten? When my mother married my father they had fifteen! This is not the marriage of a boyar, but that of the Tsar! Find me another ten! Hurry! The Tsar is getting impatient!”

They ran around like mad, tripping over one another. Mila, who had taken the time to question her parents in great detail about their wedding, was determined to follow all of the customs to the letter.

She used the wait to check up on the parents of the groom. She bowed respectfully to them, greeting both of them by name and their newly assigned patronymics, as ordered by the Tsar himself.

The boyars and boyarinas had all ignored Hiroko and Toshiya Katsuki. Mila, who came from a long line of boyars devoted to the Tsar and his family, did not let their common heritage stop her from treating them as members of the royal family.

She asked after their health and reassured both of them that Yuuri was almost ready and that the wedding would go well.

After they each thanked her with a bow Mila returned to watch Yuuri now. Another in his place would have abused their influence over the Tsar, but Yuuri had remained devoted and had worked hard to become the sort of consort a Tsar with big plans for his country needed by his side.

Mila herself was determined to become a boyarina that would suit a Tsar like Victor. Following the Tsar’s orders she had made her preparations for travel to Europe and would leave soon after the wedding.

Twenty girls arrived, interrupting her train of thought, dancing merrily. Each waved a handkerchief in her hand as she moved.

Everything they needed was here. They were ready.

Servants brought out large dishes that held loaves of bread almost as big as they were. The servants headed out first, followed by several lamp bearers. Two servants carried Yuuri’s candle, which weighed a whole pood. By tradition, they were supposed to be followed by Yuuri’s cousins and uncles, but of Yuuri’s family only his parents and sister were here with him, and, thus, all of their closest friends from the Kukuy Quarter were asked to take their place. Mari was there with her husband. They walked in a solemn procession, keeping a sharp eye on the road to make sure that no one would cross it in front of them. It was bad luck for anyone to cross the groom’s path.

Mila followed next, carrying Yuuri by the arm. Yuuri had not eaten since the previous day and now the heavy clothes weighted him down, making it hard to walk. He trembled in fear, unable to believe that the moment he and Victor had waited for was here at last.

The procession ended with two old boyarinas carrying large dishes loaded with silk handkerchiefs, animal furs, a pile of chervontsy, gold and silver coins, as well as a bowl of dried up plant leaves.

They stepped inside the Cross Chamber and sat Yuuri down at the table, right under the icons hanging on the wall.

The dishes were all placed on the table, one at a time.

Everyone was seated by rank with Mila still by Yuuri’s side. Everyone was silent. No one dared say a word, no one moved. They barely dared to breathe.

After several minutes of this silence Mila turned to Mari’s husband who was nearest to her and tugged at his sleeve. “Send for the Tsar. Tell him it is time.”

He left the room with a bow.

Yuuri stared at the flames of the candles, the only objects in the room he could make out through the veil, barely able to draw breath. Mila kept a sharp eye on him, as if protecting him from some evil force. She kept gently tickling him under the ribs to make sure he kept breathing.

Time stretched out forever.

And then the faint sound of creaking floorboards reached Yuuri’s ear and he raised his head.

Prince Romodanovsky opened the door and stepped in. He was to take the place of Victor’s father at the wedding. He greeted Toshiya like an equal, shaking him firmly by the hand, and sat down across from Yuuri.

The Tsar hurried, but several priests walked in before him. One of them sprinkled holy water where the foot of the Tsar was supposed to tread.

Finally the Tsar entered the chamber. He was all in gold and gleamed in the light of the candles. The Cap of the Monomakh covered his head.

Mila rose slowly and stepped away, vacating her spot for the Tsar and Victor rushed over to the freed spot, dropping into it without a word.

The servants came in, bearing trays overflowing with food, which they placed on the table. One of the priests blessed the food, but no one even touched it.

The servant girls and boyarinas broke out into song, dragging each note out. They sang in sad voices and Victor felt Yuuri tremble next to him. He was shocked and terrified himself.

Here it was, the very thing he had fought so hard for, but now it frightened him. Was it wise to do this?

He gazed lovingly at the thick veil over Yuuri’s head. He was unable to make out any of his dear features, but that mattered very little. Here was a heart that loved him and that he loved more dearly than anything else in the world. He wanted to reach out for Yuuri, but suspected that it was not allowed. Not yet.

He moved as closely as he dared before Mila’s laughter made him look at her. “Have patience, Your Majesty, not long now…”

He turned bright red, but did not move away.

Mila tossed dried up plant leaves at Victor and Yuuri. Someone else was tossing coins at the guests.

The women all broke out into a happy song. Outside the room, music instruments began to play, accompanying them.

The guests at the table started to eat.

The servants brought in the second course.

Victor tore his eyes away from Yuuri and looked at his parents. They were smiling, but neither of them dared touch any of the food. It was all so strange to them. They did not understand what was happening and were afraid of doing something wrong.

The servants brought in the third course.

Mila spoke up again, “Give the grooms your blessings to go get married.”

Someone whispered something to Yuuri’s parents and handed them the icons. They muttered words to Yuuri, holding the icons out in front of them, but in their embarrassment and confusion, they spoke in Japanese, instead of Russian.

Yuuri bowed to them, accepting this blessing.

Victor, on his part, accepted a blessing from those relatives who were there in the place of his parents.

The procession gathered again, same as before, and everyone made their way to the palace church.

Victor held his hand out to Yuuri, but Mila stepped in before Yuuri could take it. She helped Yuuri walk as before.

The church was cold. A wind blew in through the gaps between the wooden beams that made up its walls. It was filled with the strong smell of incense and the light of hundreds of candles.

Yuuri’s hand rose from the folds of the veil and someone gave him his candle to hold and Victor stepped closer and took the candle too, his fingers closing over Yuuri’s.

They waited for the bishop in the church to turn and notice them. He was still carrying on with the service, determined to finish it. Perhaps he thought this was the price Victor had to pay in exchange for him agreeing to marry them.

Mila slipped up to him and whispered something into his ear. The bishop threw a look at the Tsar and then at her and rushed through the rest of the service.

Yuuri was still terrified. They both were. Victor told himself that it was wrong, that they should feel happy and excited, not frightened. He had gotten his own way, after all.

 _But at what price?_ a voice in the back of his mind asked.

The bishop was in front of them now, blessing them and reading out more prayers.

Mila stepped forward and slipped the veil off Yuuri. Victor’s eyes locked onto those of his husband. Everyone watched, waiting for Yuuri to lower them or to look away, but Yuuri held his husband’s gaze as the two of them clung on to the candle.

Victor was barely aware of anything that happened around him. He only saw how pale and worn out Yuuri looked.

_What have they done to you? What torture or discomfort did they subject you to this morning?_

He, himself, had stayed up all through the night with Chris by his side, unable to sleep, and talked about his and Yuuri’s future.

And then just as the bishop finished all he needed to say, just as the whole ceremony was over, or, at least, that part of it which was supposed to take place in the church, a smile illuminated Yuuri’s face.

Victor leaned forward and, shyly at first, kissed Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri turned his face slightly and Victor caught him with one arm as their lips met.

And the Tsar claimed another victory over the rest of the world as it watched.

They returned to the Cross Chamber after that. Victor and Yuuri took their seats at the head of the table once more.

The servants brought out more food. Hot and cold meats, cheeses – there seemed to be no end to it. The guests ate without holding back this time.

Hiroko and Toshiya exchanged a look and ate, hesitantly at first, not used to the taste of most of the food on the table.

Only the Tsar and Tsarevich ate nothing. It was considered improper for newlyweds to eat with everyone else and, so, they watched one another instead. Victor placed a hand over Yuuri’s and gave him a warm smile. He could feel everything inside him burn.

One of the servants presented them with a plate covered in coins. Victor gathered two handfuls of them and tossed them to the guests.

The servants brought the next course – swans and other cooked birds.

Prince Romodanovsky rose, wrapped one of the chickens in a napkin and handed it to Victor with a bow. “The newlyweds have our blessing to retire to their bedchamber.”

All the blood rushed to Victor’s face at once as he snatched the bird. He rose to his feet faster than he had meant to and threw a look at Yuuri. The Tsarevich got up slowly, his face as red as Victor’s. He caught Victor’s hand and leaned against it for support.

The guests were all on their feet. They escorted the newlyweds to the doors with more happy singing and merry laughter. One of them tossed the plant leaves at them once more.

Victor let Yuuri enter first and closed the door behind him, shutting the rest of the world out.

The bed was much too high, piled with mattresses and blankets. Yuuri eyed it with a blush and turned his back to it, his attention back to Victor.

There were no chairs in the room, but there was a big wooden chest by the end of the bed. The Tsar sat down on it as he unwrapped the chicken. “Are you hungry?” he asked softly.

The Tsarevich gave a nod, blushing deeper. Was that improper behavior? Or was it the right thing to do?

Victor broke a leg off and handed it to Yuuri. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

They ate in silence, wiping their fingers on the napkin. Every once in a while they would throw cautious looks at one another, as if waiting for the other person to do something.

Finally Yuuri rose. His fingers scrambled through the enamel buttons, undoing each one frantically, as if unable to stand it any longer.

The Tsar’s mouth opened as he watched Yuuri toss his clothes off until he stood before Victor wearing nothing.

He moved to cover himself with his hands instinctively, but drew his arms apart and held them there. “Mother said that since we are not familiar with the customs of your country, I should wait for you to decide what you wish to do. But I am not so innocent that I do not know what to expect.” He lowered his head once more. “Your Majesty,” he added like an afterthought.

Victor stepped up to him, hesitated and reached out to take Yuuri’s hand. “Out there,” he nodded at the door, “there are ranks and I am the Tsar, but in here I am just Victor.”

Yuuri raised his eyes.

“And I will never order you to do something against your will,” Victor went on.

Yuuri trembled and lowered his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I had no wish to offend you.”

Victor swallowed and put his arms carefully around Yuuri, as if he was made of glass and could break at the merest touch. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

Yuuri put his hands on Victor’s shoulders. “I want this,” he whispered after a long pause.

They released each other and Victor helped Yuuri climb onto the bed before following after him. Yuuri held out his arms to help Victor up.

He reclined onto the pillows.

Somewhere down there several candles crackled, but their light barely reached them and, so, they were left mostly in the dark.

Yuuri took Victor’s face in his hands and kissed him. As Victor responded, Yuuri raised one hand just over Victor’s head and pulled the Cap of the Monomakh off to drop it onto the pillow beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had most of this chapter prepared for a while, so here it finally is!
> 
> You can now read the explicit scene that follows [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619921/chapters/33787251).


	15. Tsarevich Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is still going? Am I still updating this? Amazing!

Victor sat on his throne and listened to the boyars talk with a half-smile on his face. He saw the looks they gave him when he entered the chamber. He could guess what was on their minds. No doubt, they thought that he would be satisfied now, now that he had gotten his own way at last. He could read their thoughts in the expressions on their faces.

 _Now the Tsar will calm down,_ their eyes seemed to say. _Now he will stop troubling us with his mad plans and we will return to the peace and calm we once had._

They were all wrong – oh, _how_ wrong! – and he had no qualms about shattering their illusions.

He watched their faces as he announced his decision. He watched them ponder the meaning of his words and then discuss them carefully, too terrified to challenge them directly.

Some of them contented themselves with muttering words of disapproval into their long beards, while others were on their feet, arguing in voices that got louder with each spoken word.

Victor paid them little attention, ignoring the words which were said in favour of contemplating the empty throne beside him instead.

They had placed it there for the Tsarevich on his orders and no one had dared to question it at the time. Now they were, no doubt, wondering what to expect.

But Victor cared little for what they thought the Tsarveich’s role would be, preferring to think of Yuuri instead. What was he doing now? Was he still sleeping, or would he be here soon?

 

_Victor’s eyes were still closed, his eyelids heavy from sleep. He could feel the touch of bare skin against his cheek and the steady beating of someone else’s heart._

_His fingers trailed over a back and he was rewarded with a soft sigh._

_It was so warm. He could not remember the last time he had felt so warm and so safe when he slept._

_He moved his head to a more comfortable spot and opened his eyes at last._

_Yuuri lay asleep next to him, a smile on his face and his hands resting on the pillow next to his head._

_Victor took one and planted gentle kisses on it._

_Still Yuuri slept on. Victor watched his eyelashes tremble slightly, mesmerized by the sight. If only he could lie here for all eternity, forever in Yuuri’s company, in his warm embrace._

_Something gleamed behind Yuuri in the pale light of dawn. Victor sat up and saw the Cap of the Monomakh. There it was – the quiet reminder of who he was and what his duties were. Yuuri’s own crown lay on top of his discarded clothes, somewhere down below._

_“Forgive me” Victor whispered and climbed off the bed._

_He covered Yuuri up to his ears with the blankets and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Sleep well, my love.”_

The door opened and Tsarevich Yuuri stepped in. Everyone in the chamber fell silent and turned to watch Yuuri. He walked slowly, as if it was a formal occasion, with a smile on his lips, but Victor could see just the hint of pain in his face. Guilt drew him up to his feet, away from his throne and to Yuuri’s side.

“Good morning, Yuuri,’’ he said and took his hand. “Did you sleep well?”

Yuuri smiled and bowed. “I did indeed, Your Majesty.” He brought Victor’s hand reverentially to his lips and held on just a little longer than one of his subjects would.

 _Always this,_ Victor thought angrily. He made a dismissive gesture at everyone in the chamber and waited silently while they shuffled out of the room.

The boyars rose to their feet and bowed to both the Tsar and his consort as they left. No one dared speak a word, but a daring smile appeared on a few of the faces. Chris was the last one out the door, closing it behind him.

Victor led Yuuri to his throne and held his hand as he sat down. “You are in pain,” he whispered.

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, Your Majesty,” came the prompt answer as Yuuri placed his hands over his knees. He was dressed in the traditional robes of a Tsarevich, much to the Tsar’s surprise.

“Yuuri,” Victor said, putting one arm around his husband, “you can drop the formalities.”

Yuuri raised his eyes. “What were you discussing when I came in?”

Victor tried to smile and found it a difficult task. “I am sending a Grand Embassy to Europe, which I will accompany myself. I will go incognito, not as the Tsar, but as a common man.”

“And what will I do?” Yuuri asked.

“You will stay here,” Victor told him.

Yuuri turned away. “Can you really find no use for me on this mission? Have you deemed me so worthless that I cannot even be there to share the hardships of travel with you?”

Victor sat down at Yuuri’s feet. “You will rule in my place,” he said softly. “I will entrust your well-being to my uncle. He will also teach you how to rule.”

Yuuri let his gaze fall on Victor. “It pleases you to mock me, Your Majesty,” he said coldly. “How can Yuuri Katsuki possibly rule over Russia?”

“Yuuri Katsuki cannot,” Victor admitted, “but Tsarevich Yuuri can. If I order it, they will accept you as the ruler in my place. They must.”

“And what will I do?” Yuuri whispered. “Listen to the boyars speak and agree? I dare not argue with any of them! What use will I be? Nothing more than a puppet ruler!”

“I need you to look among their families for a suitable heir,” Victor said, “a boy or girl who we can take in as our own child and declare to be the next heir. We will raise this person together, you and I. I will not be away for long,” he promised and kissed Yuuri’s hand.

Yuuri lowered his head.

Victor rose to his feet. “Do you give me your permission to leave?”

“How can I not?”

“I will stay, if you order it,” Victor offered, making Yuuri laugh softly.

He watched Yuuri’s head drop lower as if he was very interested in admiring his fingers and his own heart ached. This was no easy task for him. He had thought it would be easier once he married Yuuri. He had expected the marriage to give him a feeling of security, but it only filled his heart with doubt.

Was it right to leave like this now that he had, at last, a taste of what he longed for all these years, body and soul? Was it right to wrench himself away after the vows they had exchanged the night before in the dark of their room, when there were no witnesses?

He thought of the tones of desire he had heard in Yuuri’s voice when the boy whispered, “I want this.”

Yuuri gripped his hand with both of his own and pressed it to his lips. He said nothing.

 _I am always running from here, away from Moscow with its old traditions, away from the boyars and here I am, leaving you to it._ The Tsar’s thought arrived with a deep feeling of guilt.

He turned, raised Yuuri’s head and pressed his lips against those of his husband.

They held on tightly, so tightly that it hurt. Victor’s hands dropped to Yuuri’s shoulders just as Yuuri’s rose to grab his arms.

“Yuuri,” he whispered, pulling away at last, “I will leave you in the care of people I trust. You will be safe, I give you my word.”

Yuuri rose from the throne and embraced Victor. He held on for a long time before he could bring himself to let Victor go.

“We have made them wait long enough,” he told Victor.

Victor, knowing that Chris wouldn’t be far from the doors, raised his voice and shouted, “Come!”

As he expected, the doors opened and the boyars returned to their places on the benches around the walls.

Victor clasped Yuuri’s hand to his lips, keeping his eyes locked on those of his husband. He waited for everyone to return before lowering Yuuri’s hand.

“Here is our will,” Victor announced, his fingers still clasping Yuuri’s. “The boyars will send their daughters and sons to Europe to learn all they can from scholars there. I will select those I deem fit for the embassy and those who will remain here until my return.” He cast a look around the chamber, meeting the eye of each of the boyars. Most of them lowered their eyes respectfully. “I leave you all in the care of Tsarevich Yuuri, who you will show more loyalty than you have shown me.”

Yuuri raised his eyes and caught sight of the smile on Chris’s face. He was the first to come forward, give a low bow and assure Yuuri of his loyalty.

There was a proud smile on Victor’s face. It came as no surprise to the Tsar that his closest friend was the first to come forward.

The second person to come forward was Feodor Babichev, father of Mila Babicheva.

“Chris will come with me, of course,” the Tsar said, “but Mila will stay here with you.”

Yuuri raised his eyes and gave Victor a grateful smile.

The other boyars came one by one and bowed to the Tsarevich, kissing his hand respectfully. The Tsar announced which of their children would stay and in return they bowed to him, accepting their fate without a word of argument. What could they say to their Tsar?

Yuuri noticed that Victor made his choice so that among those who stayed behind were many of Victor’s loyal supporters.

Prince Romodanovsky was personally charged with Yuuri’s well-being. He accepted his duty solemnly, bowing and kissing the hand of his Tsar as well as that of his Tsarevich.

The boyars were all dismissed after that.

The rest of the day was spent in royal visits to different nobles.

 

Night fell over Moscow. The royal dinner ended and the Tsar rose to his feet, offering his arm to his consort. Together they retired to their chamber.

Both the Tsar and Tsarevich walked with solemn expressions on their faces and nodded to anyone they encountered on their way.

Victor saw the way Chris smiled at him during the dinner. He made no gesture or comment to acknowledge that he understood his smile. He knew what his friend was thinking. After all, he understood all too well how his friend thought. He also knew that his friend was wrong.

The door closed behind them and Yuuri gave in to his feelings.

He covered his face with his hands and wept.

“Yuuri,” Victor whispered, feeling lost.

The Tsar went out and conquered Azov. He changed the laws of his country. He changed the way his people lived and married the man no one would allow him to marry.

Despite all this, when placed in front of a person who was crying, the Tsar was at a complete loss as to what to do.

“Yuuri…” he whispered once more.

Yuuri turned away and did his best to swallow down his tears, but they kept coming and rolling stubbornly down his face.

“Yuuri…” Victor tried a third time.

“You are leaving!” Yuuri exclaimed, rounding on him. “Is this our last night together before you go?”

Victor backed away. “It is,” he admitted softly.

Yuuri stepped towards him and Victor retreated until his back hit the door and there was nowhere else for him to go. Yuuri dropped his head onto Victor’s chest.

Still the tears came, leaving a damp spot in Victor’s clothes.

He raised his arms and pulled Yuuri closer. He wanted to reassure Yuuri, to tell him that he would not be gone for long, that the embassy would only last a few weeks, that he would return before Yuuri would really miss him, but the words got caught in his throat.

Yuuri clung on to him, not saying a single word, and Victor realized that no words needed to be said.

 

Morning came, cold and hostile. Clouds covered the sky, as if even the sun was refusing to show its face.

The cold north wind sought out gaps in the windows and walls. A shiver crawled over Yuuri’s shoulders and neck, waking him up. He turned over slowly and opened his eyes.

The space beside him was empty.

Yuuri dressed hastily. He made to leave the room when an idea occurred to him and, instead of searching for his husband, he set off to find something else.

 

The courtyard in front of the Kremlin was full of people on horseback, ready to leave. The Tsar had given an order and now all men – nobles, servants, who formed some part of the Grand Embassy – had arrived at sunrise, ready for the road, or risk the Tsar’s displeasure.

The Tsar himself had taken his time with breakfast, then gave several orders and, finally, exited out into the courtyard, with a thoughtful frown upon his face.

He gave his horse a long look and sent for a carriage instead.

“Your Majesty!” a voice rang out, making him turn.

Yuuri was running out towards him, tossing caution out onto the wind.

Victor rushed forward and caught the Tsarevich in his embrace as he jumped from the last steps in the staircase. “Yuuri!”

“Good morning!” Yuuri exclaimed, freeing himself and stepping back as a faint blush spread over his cheeks. “I have something for you, but you must give me your word that you will not read this until you are far from Moscow.”

Victor gave him a searching look as he accepted the envelope.

Yuuri blushed under his stare. “D-do you have any orders for me, Your Majesty?”

“Yuuri, please,” Victor said, “in these last – in our – I cannot part with you on such distant terms.”

“Oh, Victor!” Yuuri exclaimed and went silent.

They both knew what the involuntary cry meant. The question “Must you go?” hung in the air between them.

Victor gave Yuuri a smile. “I leave my kingdom in your care,” he said and bowed. “And I leave you in my uncle’s care.” He dropped to his knees and removed the hat on his head. “Your Majesty, will you grant me your blessing?” He lowered his head respectfully

The clouds parted at last and the sun shone down on the courtyard full of horses and people as they all turned to gaze in wonder at their Tsar kneeling before a commoner. For a moment silence hung in the air and then a distant cry of a bird shattered it.

The blood rose to Yuuri’s cheeks. Yuuri drew a cross in the air with his hands over Victor’s head and placed his hands on the Tsar’s shoulders. “May God bless your journey and protect you.”

Victor took Yuuri’s right hand and kissed it. Then he raised his head and their eyes met. “May God protect you as well.”

He rose solemnly after that, as if some great ceremony had been performed and walked to his carriage. People cried out and moved out of the way to allow the royal carriage to go first.

Victor leaned out of the window and waved as the wheels rattled, taking him away on his journey

Yuuri pulled a handkerchief out of his sleeve and waved it in farewell.

He remained in his spot until the last of the Embassy disappeared from view. With a heavy sigh and a last look at the road, he returned to his chamber.

Thus the rule of Tsarevich Yuuri began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess that a part of me wants to write some historic smut for this AU… But if I do that, it will be its own fic. I want to do my best to stick to the T rating for this one. On the other hand, maybe I won't write any smut for this AU. I don't know.


	16. Tsar of the Barbarians

_Mein Herr Koening,_

_We arrived in Riga yesterday with God’s help all in good health. The ambassadors were greeted with great honours. 24 cannons fired a salute upon their entering and exiting the castle. People here are very curious and so in future I will write with secret ink, but to hide it I will write some things in black ink. Hold every letter that I write after this one over a fire so that you may read the rest._

_Victor Mikhailov_

Another letter, a much longer one, arrived for the Tsarevich, addressed to “my dear wife.” Yuuri read this letter in secret, away from prying eyes. Apart from thanking Yuuri for his letter, the Tsar used expressions that brought so much blood to the Tsarevich’s face that he spent the rest of the day assuring everyone that no illness was giving him trouble.

 

A warm, pleasant breeze filled the sails of the ship St. George as it, leaning slightly on its left side, crossed the waves of the grey sea. Pieces of ice still floated on its surface, but the travellers had already spent two weeks waiting for the ice to melt. The deck of the ship was scrubbed clean. What metal there was gleamed in the sunlight. Waves crashed against the wooden figure of Neptune on the bow of the ship.

Victor sat surrounded by his travelling companions with his elbows resting on his raised knees and spoke in light and cheery tones. “Kurfürst Frederick, who we are sailing to in Königsberg,” he added, throwing a look at some of his companions, “will greet us well, you will all see. He needs us more than anything. He lives in constant fear – on one side of him are the Swedes and on the other – the Poles. He will ask us for an alliance.”

They all listened to him with smiles on their faces. Chris reclined onto the deck and shifted his hat down over his face. “But will he get one?” he asked no one in particular.

“This alliance will give us nothing,” Victor went on. “Prussia will not go to war with the Turks.”

There was a long silence after these words as each person interpreted them in their own way.

Victor rewarded each of them all a stern look. “Take care what you do or say. Word of our actions will spread far and wide. I know what all the Europeans say about me. I’m nothing more than the king of barbarians in their eyes.”

A pensive silence followed those words.

The captain of the ship, an old Finnish man, watched the group of young boys exchange jokes with surprise written all over his face. Could it really be? Was one of them truly the Tsar of the Muscovites? The world was truly filled with all manner of wonders!

 

They reached the shore only early in the morning. There was nothing worthy of attention about this shore. It was just sand and pine trees, twenty or so fishermen’s boats, nets drying on pegs, short wooden huts, eaten by the wind and the rain, but Victor spotted white curtains behind the glass of all the windows and his mind turned to the Kukuy Quarter and the sight of Yuuri watering the geraniums in his window. Guilt and a deep tenderness mixed in his soul. He thought again of the letter Yuuri had written to him, that passionate renewal of his vows and reminder of their wedding night. He fancied he could feel it burning in his inside pocket.

Women sat at the doors of their houses in white bonnets, busy sewing, or darning, or doing whatever other tasks demanded their attention. Men went about their business, greeting each other cheerfully as they passed one another.

They found a tavern and gathered around clean oak tables as they took in the warm scents in the air. They all drank beer while Victor composed a letter to Frederick to arrange a meeting.

Men and women filled the doorways and peered into the windows, curious about these newcomers who were so odd, so different from anyone they had ever met. Victor laughed and winked at them. He asked for their names, how many fish they had caught and then invited everyone to drink beer with him.

At midday a gold carriage with ostrich feathers on its roof arrived at the tavern. A young man dressed in blue silk jumped out gracefully and swept all the people out of his way as he rushed to the Muscovites, his face twisted with fear.

Three steps away from the table he took his hat off and bowed, lowering his hat so far down the feathers on it swept the floor.

“His grace, the great Kurfürst Frederick, has the honour of requesting Your…” he stopped once he saw the little head shake Victor was giving him, “requesting that the honourable and long awaited guest leaves this hut to come to a place better suited for someone of his noble rank.”

Victor joined the messenger in the carriage. His companions followed in a simple cart.

The Tsar stared out the window as the wheels of the carriage rattled on the cobblestones. The streets were clean. The houses stood straight, filled with a welcoming light.

A merchant’s house had been prepared for them in Königsberg. It was full of good oak furniture, dishes, cutlery – in short, anything that they could possibly need during their stay there. The Embassy gaped at all this in amazement.

Victor caught the expressions on their faces and said in a voice that had just a note of warning in it, “If anyone steals anything from this house…” He didn’t finish, letting the threat hang in the air.

Everyone straightened up and nodded.

Chris muttered something about sewing up pockets.

The messenger returned with the carriage and took Victor to the palace.

They entered through a secret passage in the garden, walking past a little fountain. Carefully trimmed lawns spread out around them with only dark green bushes to break up the monotony of the grass. Each bush was cut to resemble the shape of something – a sphere, a pyramid, or even a rooster.

Frederick met his guest in the garden, holding his hand out to him. Everything about him was elegant from his long fingers framed in lace to the curls of his wig.

Victor was suddenly all too aware of his rough workman’s hands with their dirty nails and how awkward his whole figure must have looked to this man who, while not a king, hoped to become one someday.

“My dear brother, my dear young brother,” Frederick said in French and then repeated his words in German.

Victor gave him a confused look. How was he to address his host in return? Brother? But he was of a rank much lower than Victor! Uncle? No, that would not do. Your Excellency? But what if that was the wrong form of address? His host would only take offence at that.

Without releasing his guest’s hand and backing away, the Kurfürst led him into one of chambers.

Victor felt his head spin: once again another of his favourite illustrations from his childhood came to life. His gaze went around the room, taking all of the details from the marble fireplace, to the clock decorated with a sky dotted with stars and crowned with a crescent moon. The soft light of candles illuminated the room, showing the astonished Tsar several golden chairs and benches as well as all manner of curious items that Victor was seeing for the first time.

 Frederick invited Victor to sit with him, but Victor, afraid that the chair would break under his weight, he supported his weight with the muscles in his legs.

The Kurfürst spoke in a mix of French and German, working his way slowly to the subject of an alliance between their two countries.

Victor’s response was simple – he was here incognito and not to speak on official matters. The ambassadors, when they arrived, were the ones he should speak with.

The Kurfürst clapped his hands and what Victor took for a window – and was, in fact, a glass door, opened to let in several well-dressed servants who were carrying a table set with food and drinks.

The sight reminded Victor how long it had been since he had last eaten and he felt his mood improve significantly.

But there was very little food – a cooked pigeon, some cold meats, a salad.

The Kurfürst invited Victor to join him with an elegant gesture and sat down at the table. “All of Europe is watching Your Royal Highness with the greatest amazement, following your every move. Alas, I can only applaud you like a Roman at an amphitheatre: my poor country is surrounded by enemies on all sides – Poles and Swedes. Soon you will understand, my young friend, that our true enemy is the Swedes. They control the Baltic Sea. We work and they take it all from us, charging each ship that crosses that sea. It is not merely our countries that suffer, but Holland and England as well.

Frederick spoke briefly about the Spanish throne and how each European country will do its best to influence who takes it and returned to complaining about Sweden.

Victor listened. His instincts told him that the man was doing his best to manipulate him. The Tsar could not shake the suspicion that Frederick would get what he wanted.

“I would like to learn how to fire cannons,” he said as soon as Frederick stopped speaking.

“The entire park is at Your Majesty’s disposal,” was the reply.

“Danke.” _Thank you._

“Try this wine,” his host offered.

Victor thanked him again. “It is too early for us to get involved in this European mess – the Turks are giving us a hard time.”

“The Black Sea will not help improve trade, but a few ports in the Baltic Sea will give Russia access to the riches of the world.” Was that a mocking smile on Frederick’s face, or was it a figment of the imagination?

 

In the week that it took for the official ambassadors to arrive Victor spent most of his time outside the city, firing cannons at targets. The artillery’s main engineer handed him a certificate that stated that Victor Mikhailov (this was Victor’s name to help hide his identity) should be both acknowledged and respected as someone whose skills at firing cannons was perfect.

 

The grand embassy arrived in Königsberg in such splendor as had never been seen before that day. People led horses decorated with expensive fabrics in front of the procession. They were followed by Prussian guards, pages, noblemen and knights. Russian trumpeters deafened everyone with their playing. Thirty volunteers that were accompanying the embassy, dressed in green kaftans, embroidered with silver followed behind them. More people followed on horseback in red kaftans with gold crests on their chests and backs. Finally, a big carriage made entirely from glass (to make it easier to look inside) followed with the grand ambassadors themselves – Celestino and two boyars Victor trusted. They were all in white sable coats. Diamond two-headed eagles capped their beaver hats. They sat, leaning against the backs of their seats, without moving, as their rings and the ends of their canes flashed in the light. The parade ended with a group of Russian nobles, who had pulled on every single expensive thing they could find.

While the ambassadors spoke with the Kurfürst, while they bowed and practiced the art of diplomacy with each other, Victor left to enjoy a ride in a yacht.

The negotiations and talks went around in circles. The ambassadors offered a friendly union, while Frederick insisted on a formal union and even when the ambassadors were ready to agree to a union, provided they all agreed that the Ottoman Empire was their common enemy, this did not please him.

The Kurfürst spent all night talking circles around Victor until morning came and he agreed.

“Very well then. If you need our help, we will come, but we will not sign papers.” He pulled out the little golden cross that he always wore around his neck under his clothes. “I am prepared to kiss the cross. Will you believe me?”

But Frederick made him sign an agreement anyway, even if in secret.

 

The embassy prepared to leave the next day, but an important event made them wait for another three weeks. The Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth was choosing a new king. The aristocracy began a real war in support of one candidate or another.

Only now did Victor really understand what a political game meant. If one of the candidates, the brother of the French king, took the throne, Poland would become allies with the Ottoman Empire and turn against Moscow.

Supporters of both sides sent gold, spread rumours, tried to use their influence. Victor ordered that an army was sent to help the other candidate, but August, Elector of Saxony, arrived with his own army to take the throne and won.

The brother of the French King – or so they said – made it only as far as Bologne, shrugged his shoulders and returned to his home.

King Augustus promised to be Victor’s ally and the matter ended to the embassy’s great satisfaction.

 

Victor continued his journey through Berlin, Brandenburg and Halberstadt. The only stop he agreed to was at factories near Ilzenburg. While the outward goal of the embassy was to find allies, the Tsar wished to inspect factories and study every craft that interested people in Europe. He wanted to find artisans to send back home.

They travelled down a road lined with pear and apple trees. The trees were full of fruit. One of the travellers whispered to another one that evidently the people who lived here would never steal them. Fields spread out on either side of the road, broken by ancient oak trees and houses. Each house had a stone fence around it and a garden within that fence. Well-fed cows grazed in the fields. Streams sparkled in the sunlight as they flowed towards watermills.

Every two or three versts they passed a little town with a brick church and a tall roof, a cobblestone square, a rathaus with a tall roof, neat little houses, a tavern with a funny sign and a barber’s. People in knitted hats, short jackets and white socks gave them welcoming smiles. Here was kind old Germany.

On a warm July night Victor and Chris drove into a little town near Hannover. People in the little houses were sitting down to dinner when the cart passed a tavern. A man stood in its doorway and shouted something to the driver of their cart.

The driver stopped the horses and turned to address Victor.

“Your Grace, that man tells me he has fresh sausages and a bed to offer. I doubt we will find a better place to stay the night.”

Victor gave his agreement and he and Chris jumped off the cart. The carts and carriages following behind theirs came to a halt.

“What do you think, Chris?” Victor asked, taking deep breaths of the warm night air with a smile and thinking of Yuuri for what must have been the hundredth time that day. “Will we make a life like this for ourselves?”

“I don’t know, Herr Victor,” Chris admitted. “It will take time.”

“Look at this life,” he sighed. “A true paradise! When I think of Moscow I want to burn the whole city to the ground.” He bit his lip in frustration. “And build a new one,” he added in a quieter voice.”

Chris was silent.

“Back there they’re all rotting from tradition and laziness,” Victor went on. “Frederick is right – we need to make our way to the Baltic Sea and build a new city there. A real paradise.”

Chris merely nodded.

They entered the tavern. Strings of sausages hung around the room. A welcome fire burning, despite the summer warmth outside. The travellers ordered beer and were starting to get comfortable when a well-dressed messenger ran in.

He nodded at the landlord, making the man leave, and bowed, holding his hat in his hand. He did not merely bow, he flew around the room, making Victor stare in amazement. Chris watched with an indifferent air.

The messenger bowed again. “Herr Highness, Sophia, Electress of Hanover and her daughter, Sophia Charlotte, Electress of Brandenburg, and with her son, George Louis, Elector of Hanover, heir to the throne of England, as well as the men and women of her court left Hanover in great haste, in the hopes of meeting Your Royal Highness, the extraordinary and great Tsar of the Muscovites.

The messenger pleaded with Victor to come to dinner. The Electress and her daughter refused to sit down to dinner until His Highness joined them.

“I cannot join them,” Victor said, mixing languages again as he spoke. “I am in great haste and the hour is late. When I am on my way back from Holland, then, perhaps…”

But the messenger refused to accept this answer. He bowed and pleaded with the Tsar so much that Chris whispered to Victor in Russian,

“I doubt he will let you rest, Herr Victor. Go visit them for an hour or so. Germans get offended so easily. Surely there is no harm in just a short visit?”

Victor pursed his lips and agreed that he and Chris would come and meet only the Electress and her daughter and only if they were admitted without ceremony so that word did not spread that the Tsar of all the Russias was here.

He rose, put his hat on and threw a longing look back at the fire, the sausages and the white curtains in the window before following the messenger outside.

A carriage was waiting for them at the door.

 

Sophia and her daughter Sophia Charlotte sat at a table set for dinner in the middle of a cold hall in an old medieval castle. Mother and daughter endured many discomforts in this castle provided for their stay by a local nobleman without complaints. They had done their best to cover up the faults in the castle and had persuaded the owner to find comfortable chairs for them.

Both women suppressed a shudder at the harsh nature of their ancestors and did their best not to think about how old the castle was or that there must be owls and mice living inside it.

They believed that it was each person’s goal to study music and the arts. They were patrons of the arts and the sciences.

A letter had come from Frederick several days ago, where he wrote about his impressions of the Tsar of the barbarians who was travelling under the guise of a carpenter. “Moscow, it would appear, is waking up from centuries of sleep. It is important that her first steps are guided in the correct direction.” But the women had come not so much out of a political motive, as to satisfy their curiosity.

They sat in their chairs, listening for the sound of rattling wheels.

Sophia was in a wig so tall that even if she lifted her arms, she would be unable to reach the top with the tips of her fingers. She wore a delicate lilac dress lined with lace. The Electress of Hanover was getting on in years, but her dark eyes still glowed with all the energy of youth.

Sophia Charlotte was beautiful and young, with dark, intelligent eyes like her mother. She had a proud face and she hid the eagerness with which she listened for the sounds of a carriage.

“At last,” she said as soon as the sound reached her ears and rose, “they are here.”

But her mother beat her to the window. They peered out together at a tall shadow that passed through the garden, swinging its arms.

“There he is,” the mother whispered. “He truly is a giant!”

Their messenger opened the door and announced the arrival of the Tsar of the Muscovites and a tall and awkward man stepped inside.

Both women saw his embarrassment and confusion. They heard him mutter “good evening” in German and made a few steps towards him.

The mother curtseyed gracefully, raising her dress with the tips of her fingers. “Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” she said.

Her daughter followed her example, moving with the grace of a swan. “Your Royal Highness will forgive us the impatience with which we awaited the arrival of a young hero, the ruler of many nations and the first of the Russians to do away with the prejudices of his ancestors.”

They did their best to put him at ease, but it only increased Victor’s discomfort. He was all too conscious of how ridiculous he appeared in their eyes.

To his embarrassment, he completely forgot all the German he had ever learned. He thought of Yuuri again, knowing he would have handled this situation much better than he was doing now. “I cannot speak,” he mumbled in German.

The women smiled and spoke for him.

The mother asked him a hundred questions without even waiting for an answer – about the weather, the road, Russia, the war with the Ottoman Empire, about the Tsar’s impressions of his travels. She put her arm around his and led him gently to the table.

The three of them sat down together.

The mother offered him food while the daughter poured him wine. They treated him like a member of their family, as if the mother was _his_ mother and the daughter was his sister.

“Try this, Your Highness,” the daughter offered.

Slowly Victor relaxed and began to answer their questions.

The Electresses told him about Flemish painters, about the great playwrights in the French court, about beauty and philosophy. He understood very little of what they told him and asked them more questions in return.

“Science and arts in Moscow?” he asked and nearly kicked the table. “I, myself, saw them here for the first time. My boyars are afraid of all that. All they know is how to sleep, eat and pray. My country is very dark and dreary. If either of you came there, the fear would kill you instantly.” He watched their faces and wondered what they thought of that. “Here I am with you, too scared to think about what I left back there.” His heart fell as he thought about Yuuri again, left behind to deal with the stupidity and the stubbornness of his people.

“They say that I am mad and that I enjoy killing people,” he went on and his eyes went wide. “Do not believe those rumours. What I love most of all,” he paused and opened his hands, showing the calluses on his fingers, “is building ships. I built an entire galley with these two hands. I love the sea,” his heart whispered a name, but he went on. “I know fourteen crafts, badly, but I am here to get better.”

He stared down at his hands in silence. The women waited for more, not daring to say a word.

“My own people think I am mad, but anyone who lives among them long enough will go mad whether he wants to or not.” He raised his eyes and gave them a big smile. “All of Moscow needs to be rebuilt. My people are stubborn and will not listen to reason, but I…” the smile widened, “I will build a new capital, but for that I need to learn how to build myself, first.” He took Sophia by the hand.

The Electresses were overjoyed by this. They forgave him his bad table manners and his bad German, they forgave him that he spoke their language like a sailor and not at all like a king and just listened to him talk.

“Being a king in your country is a great honour,” Victor went on, “but being the Tsar of all the Russias is worse than living as a simple peasant here, believe me. My only consolation is my dear Yuuri,” he said and pulled a medallion out of his inside pocket to show a little image of his husband.

The women listened to the Tsar talk about love like an infatuated youth and their hearts went out to him. They had their own thoughts about a marriage that broke all the rules of tradition and wondered what a commoner could be like to win over the heart of this man.

The wine and seeing the two women listen to him talk about Yuuri with interest cheered Victor up greatly and, so, when Sophia Charlotte asked for permission to introduce her uncle, brother and court Victor agreed.

The duke arrived first, followed by the heir to the English throne. Chris was next to join them, surrounded by the noble men and women of Hanover (he had a relaxed air, as if he had spent his whole life among them and Victor even caught sight of him flirting with some of the nobles).

Celestino and the two other ambassadors arrived next. They had caught up with the Tsar’s group and, when they found out where His Royal Highness was, rushed to join him without stopping to change their clothes or eat.

Victor embraced the uncle, kissed the future King George on the cheek and gave a polite bow to the noblemen. The women curtseyed. The men bowed.

They closed the doors and Victor poured wine for everyone himself, explaining that it was an old Russian custom that would not allow anyone to decline a goblet of wine from the Tsar himself.

Italian singers appeared in the hall with mandolins in their arms. Chris, seeing the effect that the sad music was having on Victor’s spirits, ran off to fetch those members of the embassy who he knew would be passable musicians.

The musicians stood against the walls, they banged spoons and dishes together. Some blew into whistles, others – into wooden flutes. And for the first time the old medieval halls filled with devilish music.

Victor rolled his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, made a bored face, stuck out his toe and let his foot roll from toe to heel.

Everyone gathered around to watch the Tsar of the barbarians break out into a dance.

He kicked his legs out, dropping and rising to the music. The music sped up and so did he. And then, catching a smile on the mother’s face, he ran up to her, caught her hand in his own and led her out onto the dance floor. He danced around her, much to her astonishment.

Catching the hint, the rest of the embassy picked out partners among the Germans and joined the dance. Celestino directed the dancing, much to general amusement. Sophia Charlotte picked out one of the ambassadors.

Laughter and exclamations filled the room. Skirts spun, wigs got tangled. The travellers kept asking each other why the women all had such hard ribs.

Victor, feeling bold, posed the question to Sophia Charlotte herself, making her laugh.

“Those are not ribs!” she exclaimed, the laughter drawing tears from her eyes. “Those are the bones in our corsets!”

 

That evening Victor received a letter from Yuuri with news that he was not prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What better way to celebrate your birthday than by writing fic, right? Right!
> 
> Some historic notes:  
> Königsberg is now called Kaliningrad (yes, that Kaliningrad). If you want to read about a city that kept getting taken over by other countries, this is a good one, because holy crap what a time line!  
> Kurfürst Frederick later crowned himself King of Prussia, but because Poland didn’t like it, he changed his title to King in Prussia. (I'm sorry, I just find this hilarious.)


	17. Several New Acquaintances

Spring came late that year. After a long winter the days were getting warmer at last and even the sun seemed to shine brighter. Yuuri finished getting dressed and stopped at the window to throw a longing look up at the blue sky. A year ago he would have spent the day outside in the garden, looking for the first signs of blooms.

Now he was a Tsarevich in the Kremlin with duties that, sadly, did not include any gardens.

He turned away from the window and left his room with determination in his step. Victor had trusted this to him and he would see it done right.

He was halfway down the hall when someone called out his name, making him stop and turn around.

Prince Romodanovsky came down the hall after him. “Your Highness,” he said and gave a formal bow from the waist, “may I ask after your health?”

Yuuri was getting tired of ceremonies. This was his second week as Tsarevich Yuuri and Tsarevich Yuuri had no wish to explain for the hundredth time that he was in perfectly good health. “I am well,” he said and turned away.

“What word from His Highness, the Tsar?” Romodanovsky asked.

Yuuri drew in a deep breath. He knew that each letter that arrived first went to Romodanovsky and only when he wished to tell Yuuri about it would the letter come to him. The first letter he had received had not been touched, but all the rest had been opened, much to Yuuri’s embarrassment.

“Uncle,” Yuuri said (the Prince had insisted Yuuri address him in this way and no other), “I have had no word from the Tsar.” If the Prince wished to play this game, Yuuri would play along. He turned and smiled at Romodanovsky. “When I hear from him, I will let you know.”

The Prince watched him thoughtfully. “Good,” he said after a while and nodded. “Now come with me.” He bowed once more, “If you would, Your Highness.”

Yuuri nodded and followed the Prince.

Victor had expected Romodanovsky to teach Yuuri how to rule. He had trusted the Prince to be on Yuuri’s side and protect him and, yet, all the old man seemed to be doing was placing obstacles in Yuuri’s way.

Nevertheless, he followed the Prince all the way to his chambers and then watched Romodanovsky peek behind doors and peer into every corner of the room, as if looking for spies.

“What are you doing, Your Highness?” the Prince asked softly when he was sure that no one was listening.

“Listening to you,” Yuuri shot back.

“You called for the carriage and got dressed for a royal visit. May I ask why?”

 _You know why! If you know what I was doing, then you know the rest of my orders!_ He hesitated before answering, but, then again, the old fox would find out everything eventually. “I am acting on orders from the Tsar, which is more than I can say about you.”

“My orders are to protect you at all times,” the Prince replied coolly.

“And you are using this as an excuse to keep me locked up and powerless to do anything?”

Romodanovsky watched Yuuri with a smile.

Yuuri, realizing he was starting to get carried away, breathed out and straightened up. “I will go wherever I like and I refuse to let anyone stop me,” he said with just a note of a threat in his voice.

The Prince stepped between Yuuri and the door. “Alone?” he asked.

“I am not afraid!” Yuuri protested.

“True,” the Prince admitted, “but you should be. Do I need to remind you that Lilia is alive and well, and not far from Moscow? Do I need to tell you what the streltsy are whispering about?” the Prince went on.

Yuuri was silent. He had forgotten about the streltsy.

“I will not give in to fear,” Yuuri insisted.

Romodanovsky patted Yuuri on the shoulder. “I can see that now. You are as headstrong as your husband. Perhaps I can suggest an alternative?”

“Yes?”

“You are planning a personal visit to the boyars, yes?”

Yuuri nodded.

“Send for them. Order them to come here to you,” the Prince said and gave him a satisfied smile.

It was a good idea. Yuuri knew that in his place Victor would visit everyone personally, but he had people he trusted and most of the boyars feared him (even if they did not agree with his plans).

“Will they come?” Yuuri asked, allowing just a hint of fear to slip into his voice.

“They better,” the Prince said.

Under Romodanovsky’s sharp stare Yuuri wrote letters to each of the boyar’s families, requesting that they pay him a visit. The letter was worded like a polite request, but the Prince suggested a few words that suggested to the reader that if this request was not fulfilled, they would face punishment.

The Prince told Yuuri about each family before Yuuri started each letter and Yuuri did his best to adjust the words based on what he was told. Much to Yuuri’s embarrassment, the Prince had been very impressed by the neatness of Yuuri’s writing,

Yuuri felt his cheeks burn. “Really,” he protested, “this is no great achievement.”

“On the contrary,” the Prince said and smiled. “Each time I read one of the Tsar’s letters I struggle to understand what he means. Parts of the letter are in a foreign tongue and you will not convince me that the Tsar’s writing can be called neat.”

“That is because the alphabet is so difficult to use!” Yuuri exclaimed defensively. “If you simplify the letters, it would be easier to write in Russian.”

The Prince smiled and said nothing.

Yuuri took a new sheet of paper and wrote the alphabet down. “Az, Buki, Vedi…” He drew each letter out while the Prince watched. It occurred to Romodanovsky that even priests would envy the neatness of Yuuri’s writing, if they saw it. “If you got rid of the lines over the letters, or if you had fewer letters that would make it easier.”

He paused with his hand raised over the paper and stared down at it. The silence stretched out for a long time and then Yuuri set the paper aside and returned to his letter as if there had been no talk about alphabets, but the Prince noticed Yuuri throw looks at the paper with the alphabet from time to time, as if he could not get the thought out of his mind.

The letters written and sent, Romodanovsky went over how Yuuri should receive all his guests. He turned Yuuri’s chair around (the Prince was a very strong man) and acted the part of the boyars coming to see the Tsarevich. He pleaded and asked for favours and Yuuri, forgetting that they were just pretending, treated the requests seriously. He asked for details and made his decisions based on the answers Romodanovsky gave him.

After ten such pretend visits Romodanovsky bowed. “You must be hungry, Your Majesty.”

Yuuri rose to his feet, expecting that Romodanovsky would leave him alone now, but the Prince followed him back to the dining hall.

He clapped his hands and declared loudly that the Tsarevich was hungry and that it was a great disgrace that he had to wait for his food and promised all manner of horrors to the one responsible for this neglect.

Yuuri lowered himself into his seat and cast a long thoughtful look at Victor’s empty place. Where was he now? Was Victor thinking of him or was he too preoccupied with other matters to spare Yuuri a single thought?

He could not stop the tears when they came. The first slid down his cheek and hit the table. The second followed soon after. More tears followed, much to Yuuri’s distress.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Romodanovsky yell louder.

Yuuri raised his eyes and the Prince smiled down at him. “I will personally see to it that the one responsible is thrashed, Your Majesty. Incompetent servants will not be tolerated. The last time my servants made my cry from hunger I hung the head cook from the fence myself.”

Yuuri shuddered.

“I know what will cheer you up, Your Majesty. I have another nephew. He is not as wise and gifted as Your Majesty, or His Majesty the Tsar, your husband, but I dare say his foolishness always cheers me up. May I send for him?” In that moment the cunning Prince’s face had a look of such genuine kindness that Yuuri almost believed him.

“Send for him,” Yuuri ordered. He drew his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. “I could do with some cheering up.”

Romodanovsky’s nephew was a young man named Georgi Popovich. He was a talented and intelligent man, but, to his great desperation, he was the nephew of Prince Romodanovsky and, so, he spent most of his life living in Tsar Victor’s shadow.

He made a good first impression on Yuuri, but as soon as he sat down and Yuuri asked him about his life he caught the expression on the Prince’s face and realized that he had made a big mistake.

Before anyone could stop him, Georgi told Yuuri everything about Anya, the love of his life. Yuuri tried to listen, he really did, but then he made the mistake of looking at the Prince’s face again and burst out laughing.

Georgi paused mid-word. “What? What?”

Yuuri pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to contain the words, but with no luck. He felt guilty about laughing: Georgi’s story was not amusing in the slightest, but the pain on the Prince’s face was so comical that Yuuri could not help himself.

“Please forgive me,” he said once he finally got his laughter under control. “I meant no offence. Please continue your story.”

Throwing a distrusting look at both of them, Georgi went on. He really was in love with this Anya and Yuuri thought about Victor while he listened.

Victor would return soon, he told himself. He would return and not leave Yuuri ever again. Yuuri would make sure of it.

Romodanovsky’s patience ran out long before Yuuri’s. “You are boring His Majesty, Georgi. We called you here to entertain us not to put us to sleep.”

Yuuri wanted to protest against this, but Georgi accepted the Prince’s words with a slight bow of his head.

“What would you have me do?” Georgi asked.

“Sing! Dance!”

Georgi rose to his feet as the Prince called for the musicians. He sang and danced with a false smile on his face. When the Prince dismissed him he hurried out of the room, not wishing to stay a moment longer.

Yuuri left his seat and followed Georgi out into the hallway.

Hearing the footsteps behind him, Georgi turned around, looking ready to lash out.

“I wish to hear more about Anya,” Yuuri said and watched a smile appear on Georgi’s face. “Come with me.” He led the way in another direction.

Georgi walked after him without saying a word.

They descended a white stone staircase and walked down a path that led straight to the apple orchard. As soon as they were outside Yuuri took a deep breath of the fresh air. For a moment he felt free from all of his troubles.

Georgi talked about love and Yuuri listened without interrupting. Even though he did not say a word, he felt as if he and Georgi were both opening their hearts to each other.

“Am I boring Your Majesty?” Georgi asked after some time.

Yuuri smiled at little pale buds on one of the trees. “No.”

“I dedicated several poems to Anya,” Georgi admitted after a short pause. When Yuuri turned and gave him a surprised look he added, “I have a couple of French books of poetry. My French is poor,” he admitted, “so I did my best to write poems in Russian.”

Curious, Yuuri asked to hear it. The poetry was terrible, but it got Yuuri thinking.

 

“That was very clever of Your Majesty,” Romodanovsky said to him that evening.

They were in one of Yuuri’s chambers where the young man was pouring over a map of Europe. He was trying to guess where Victor could be at that moment, but the Prince had followed him into the chamber and kept speaking as if he could not see that his presence was starting to wear Yuuri out.

“What do you mean?” Yuuri tore his eyes away from the map and looked up into Romodanovsky’s face.

“Do not waste your efforts on making a friend out of my nephew,” the Prince went on. “His friendship will give you nothing.”

“In a court where everyone is against me, friendship with anyone will give me something,” Yuuri replied coldly, returning to the map. He decided not to waste his breath explaining that there had been no plan in his actions towards the young boyar. Someone like Romodanovsky would not understand the joys of pure friendship.

The Prince bowed. “I wish you a pleasant evening, Your Majesty,” he said and left.

Yuuri breathed out a sigh of relief. He looked at the little markings he had placed on the map next to the cities Victor had already visited and written to him about. It all sounded so interesting! He produced Victor’s latest letter and reread it. After an excited description of another city, he wrote about his feelings for Yuuri and even copied out bits of Yuuri’s letter back to him.

He found paper and some ink to write, but what could he write? He spent a long time mulling over this.

Outside the sky began to darken and he ordered that someone bring candles in for him to write by.

He could not write about the Prince or how his day went, so he wrote about his feelings instead. Perhaps, if Yuuri had known that not only would the Tsar keep all his letters (at first in the inside pocket of his coat and then, much later, in a little chest where he kept his most prized possessions, of which Yuuri’s letters had been a significant portion), but that these letters would survive long after their deaths, if Yuuri could only imagine that all of these letters would one day form a collection of their own, displayed under glass in a room of a museum for visitors to come and read, he would not have written the way he did then.

 

_My dear Viten’ka, dear heart, the light of my life,_

_May you live for many, many years! These days I live only with thoughts of you._

He continued the letter in much the same way. The servants had brought more candles than he needed and their light fell on the paper as he covered it in the declaration of his feelings. This time, perhaps as a result of his conversation with Georgi, he wrote a poem. He signed the way he always did, just in case the letter fell into someone else’s hands:

_Your loving wife._

Once he finished he let the ink dry, sealed the letter and placed a kiss over the wax. He wrote a letter like this every day and sent them all, wondering how many of them would reach the Tsar.

 

Two days later the Babichev family answered his summons. They were the first family to arrive.

Yuuri, who had prepared himself for difficult conversations with these families, was pleased to find himself treated like a loved member of the family. At Mila’s suggestion, Yuuri’s parents were sent for and the two families spent a pleasant day together.

Afternoon was turning to evening when Mila and Yuuri found themselves in the apple orchard listening to Georgi’s terrible poetry. Prince Romodanovsky had not joined them that day, but he had sent his nephew to keep them company.

That night when Yuuri retired to the royal bedchamber he reflected on how pleasant the evening had been and wrote a few words about it to Victor, but found them wanting. How could he describe how it felt to be put at ease after many days of fear and loneliness? Or how it felt to be with people who genuinely wished to make his acquaintance and not merely because he was the Tsar’s consort?

The memory of this day helped him through the days that followed. Outside the sun shone brighter and bird sang as Yuuri sat in the great halls of the Russian Tsars and accepted visits from the boyars, listened to their fake flattery and longed to be out there under the trees.

 

A servant girl came into the room and placed a basket of wild strawberries on the table before Yuuri. She bowed all the way to the ground.

“I bring you a present from my mistress – Mila Feodorovna,” she explained.

Yuuri looked at the ripe red berries that almost glowed in the candlelight. These were the kinds of berries that would melt in the eater’s mouth.

Making a mental note to thank Mila later, Yuuri reached for the basket, ready to take a handful of berries.

Prince Romodanovsky burst into the room. Before Yuuri could even say anything, the man grabbed the basket and pulled it out of Yuuri’s reach. “What are you doing, Your Majesty?”

“Mila Feodorovna sent me a gift,” Yuuri replied, furious that he had to explain himself to someone.

Romodanovsky grabbed the servant girl by the arm. “Eat them,” he ordered.

Yuuri opened his mouth to argue, but, before he could say a word, the girl, with a look that betrayed her hunger, reached for the basket, took a handful and ate it.

A heavy silence followed as both Yuuri and Romodanovsky watched her.

The girl gave a soft sigh and dropped on the floor. Her poor soul seemed to leave the body with that last breath.

Yuuri paled and his hands shook. His fingers clutched the pen in his hands. “Dead…” he whispered. “In a single instant… And she did not even know what awaited her. She was merely hungry…”

“That could have been you,” Romodanovsky told him. He bowed. “With respect.”

Yuuri knelt down next to the girl. He whispered a prayer and closed her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said to her. “You took the death that was meant to be mine.”

“She is a mere serf. Do not waste your breath,” Romodanovsky said.

“She is… was a person with a soul and a heart!” Yuuri protested. He rose to his feet and walked over to the door. He called out for one of the servants. “Fetch a priest,” he said.

Yuuri returned to the breathless body of the servant girl. “I wish I knew her name.”

Romodanovsky scoffed.

“Go,” Yuuri ordered, feeling anger bubble inside him. “Get out of my sight and do not return unless you are sent for!”

The Prince bowed. He picked up the basket of berries. “I will find who is responsible,” he promised and left.

“I know who is responsible,” Yuuri murmured.

 

The weeks that followed were full of visits from the boyars. They took off their hats and bowed all the way down. They asked for favours. They pleaded for the protection of the Tsarevich from their enemies and complained about one another. They tried to be cunning, but Yuuri did not believe their words.

The Tsarevich paid them little attention, focusing instead on their sons and daughters, looking for the right person among them.

It was not long before the Tsarevich felt tired of their company. He longed to be free to meet with Georgi and Mila once more.

 

One morning as he waited for another guest a servant arrived with the news that his master’s, Nikolai Konstantinovich Plisetsky’s, carriage got caught in the mud and his servant was unable to get him out. The old man had sent to the palace to ask for another servant. Instead of asking someone to help him, the man had decided to come straight to the Tsarevich to ask for his permission for one of his men to help him.

Yuuri rose from his throne. Did they really need to ask for his permission for a trifle such as this?

“Someone must go at once!” he ordered and then followed the servant himself.

No one stopped him. No one even dared to question his presence and that was how Yuuri ended up outside the carriage, helping everyone push.

 

Nikolai Konstantinovich Plisetsky (or, as some called him: Grandfather Plisetsky) was a man who had seen much of life, but little of any of the Tsars. He had seen even less of Moscow, preferring instead to stay in the town of Kostroma his whole life.

When the Tsarevich’s summons came they had caught him by surprise.

 _Oh well,_ he thought, _rumour has it that they are doing things differently in Moscow now. I might as well go see what all the fuss is about myself._

Several years ago his son had married a kind woman, but a sickness had taken them both away not long after their first son was born and Grandfather Plisetsky raised the boy all on his own.

 _Perhaps,_ the grandfather thought, _I can get something out of this. Kostroma is a small town with little to offer a young boy. My son is barely five years old, but this trip could do him a lot of good. I must do my best to persuade the Tsar to take him into his service._

If truth be told, the grandfather had little idea what this service would be.

Word had reached him of the Tsar’s marriage to a common foreigner, but he had merely shrugged his shoulders. “Our Tsar-father knows best,” he replied with a smile.

The journey from Kostroma to Moscow had been a trial for them both. The roads were rough and the inns they stayed at along the way – very uncomfortable. But young Yuri (for that was his name) did not complain. He bore the hardships as if they were his duty to bear.

When the carriage got caught in the mud within a versta of the Kremlin Nikolai sent his servant to fetch a man to help him and waited patiently to be rescued.

Yuri sat without a word.

It was some time before the silence was broken by shouts on all sides and Nikolai wondered just how many men this servant had succeeded in fetching.

And, so, as soon as the carriage could move from the tricky trap he opened the door to shout his thanks.

The words froze upon his lips as he took in the smiling man standing by the road, his royal clothes all covered in mud.

“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed, removing his hat.

The young man who, even covered in mud, stood with a regal air, turned and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Would you do us the honour of joining us?” the grandfather asked.

The young man nodded and slipped into the carriage.

Nikolai was filled with embarrassment at the state of his transport. To call it a carriage was to flatter it and its owner. It was far closer to a cart, even if it did have a roof.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” he said. “This carriage is not fit for a Tsarevich. That’s not to mention how you saved us! I cannot thank you enough.”

The Tsarevich raised his hand. “Please,” he said, “you were in trouble and I felt it was my duty to help.” His expression became a wistful one. “And it gave me a reason to leave the palace…”

Yuri piped up at this. “Why would you want to leave the palace? I thought palaces were big and nice and…” he stopped to think about the rest of the sentence, “…good to stay in.”

The Tsarevich smiled at this. “For some, I suppose they are.”

Yuri’s eyes went wide. “You do not like it there?”

“Forgive my grandson, please,” Nikolai cut in. “We should start with proper introductions. I am Nikolai Konstantinovich Plisetsky. This is my grandson: Yuri Ivanovich Plisetsky.”

“I am also named Yuuri,” the Tsarevich said with a smile. “And I am very pleased to meet you.”

The Tsarevich had great manners and a kind heart. And, although his grandson said several things that made him laugh, Nikolai saw the loneliness in his eyes.

They chatted about trifles as they left their carriage behind and entered the Kremlin. Yuuri led them past great halls and into the apple orchard.

The sight of the orchard delighted little Yuri and he ran out to climb the first tree he could find. Both men moved to stand under it just in case they had to catch him.

“I want a good future for my grandson,” the grandfather admitted. “But then, I suppose, so does every other grandparent.”

Yuuri smiled and said nothing.

“We have lived far away from Moscow for a long time. I know little about how things are done here,” Nikolai went on. “I would like Yuri to serve his Tsar.”

“I will see what I can do,” the Tsarevich promised.

The three of them spent a delightful day together. In the evening Nikolai and Yuri were given rooms to stay in at the palace. Nikolai watched Yuri jump on the bed and smiled.

He liked Tsarevich Yuri very much, he decided. The Tsar had picked well.

 

Yuuri returned to his chamber, feeling a mad idea dawn on him. Was it mad? What would Victor think?

He prepared some paper and sat down at the table. He spent a long time thinking about what he should write to Victor. Maybe it was too early to say this, he thought. Maybe he needed more time before he made this decision.

He thought of Nikolai’s kindness and of the way little Yuri’s face lit up with a smile when the Tsarevich took his hand. He thought of Yuri’s questions and how he would keep asking until he felt satisfied.

 _Victor will be the one to decide in the end,_ he reminded himself and wrote the letter.

As the days passed after his letter was sent he became more and more convinced that his choice was the right one.

 

Every letter from Yuuri was a delightful surprise and Victor always preferred to read them in private. This time he was in such a rush that he did not even close the door to his room.

Victor’s hands shook as he broke the seal on the envelope. As usual, his eyes devoured every word on the page. He ran through it once, did not understand a word and reread it another three times before the meaning of the letter sank in.

 

_My dear Viten’ka,_

_I am very glad to hear that you are in good health. I am missing you more than words can say. The house is much like you left it. Uncle is helping a lot with running the farm. Viten’ka, dear heart, the light of my life,_ (here Victor felt tears rise to his eyes), _I have very important news to tell you. I know a letter is not the best way, but you should know that your wife is with child and you will be a father soon. The midwife assures me that it will be a boy._

_Forever yours,_

_Your wife_

Victor rose to his feet and paced the room. Yuuri, in keeping up with their pretence, had found a way to give him very important news. He had found a suitable heir for the throne.

Chris chose that moment to walk into his room. Victor turned around and gave his friend a big smile. “Bring me wine,” he ordered, “I have something to celebrate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case someone is confused: there is no mpreg. Victor asked Yuuri to find someone who he could name as his heir (since they can't have children of their own) and Yuuri thinks Yuri P would make a good candidate. Yuuri is just telling Victor about it in code, because Victor is trying to hide that the Tsar is out in Europe and not still in the country. I'm hoping this is clear from the fic itself.
> 
> Historical note: in 1708-1711 Peter the Great modified the Russian alphabet to be easier for everyday use and thus started the big change in written Russian to bring it closer to spoken Russian. The first three letters of the alphabet used to be pronounced “Az”, “Buki”, “Vedi” and are now pronounced as “ah”, “beh”, “veh” (the “h” is silent). Over the next few centuries various letters got thrown out and then added back in and people debated which letters should count and which ones are just the same letter. Anyway, I’m getting distracted and I don’t know how many of you actually care about any of these historical notes, but I thought I would record all the random facts I ran into here just in case someone cared. (I resisted the urge to do that before, but here I am piling them all in now haha)


	18. Amsterdam, London and Vienna

The embassy continued on its way through Europe. They divided into two groups in Coppenbrügge. The honourable ambassadors circled around the Amsterdam, while Victor headed directly for the Rhine, travelling by ships down the river. After passing a little village they entered long-awaited Holland. Near the little village of Fort they entered the network of canals.

The day was hot. Ahead of them the canal lay in a straight light. The little plots of land all around them were divided up evenly, as if it was a drawing on paper and not markings on the ground. The hyacinths and daffodils growing in the little ordered gardens gave way to tulips of all imaginable colours – velvet purple, crimson, gold and very pale pink.

Windows stuck out of the landscape, turning lazily in the breeze. Little houses with ceramic roofs and big storks’ nests marked each plot of land. Weeping willows trailed their long branches in the water of the canals. And, far off, in the blue haze, it was just possible to make out the silhouette of a town…

The travellers took it all in with their eyes open wide, as if to take in as much of the details around them as possible. They stared in wonder at the boatmen in wide pants, tight jackets and wooden shoes.

The country was like a little miracle to their eyes, conquered from the sea, where every little patch of land was treasured and looked after.

Victor sighed dreamily. “There is more room in our courtyards, but which of you would think to sweep up the place and plant a little garden? Laziness keeps you lying on your beds, doing nothing all day. We have a big treasure and yet we are poor.”

The canals were full of other ships, carrying goods. It was getting more crowded and harder to manoeuvre.

Evening descended on them gently, as if someone had had covered them with a blanket, as they got closer to Amsterdam.

The masts and sails of ships burned in the light of the setting sun. Clouds changed from pale pink to grey as the sun set. Fires burned in the distance.

Their path continued around Amsterdam to the small village of Zaandam. Victor was impatient to get to the city he had heard so much about since his childhood.

Several years ago, when he was just training his toy army he knew a Dutch smith named Gerrit Kist, who had helped build the first ships of what some called the toy navy. After the ships were finished, Kist returned home, but still Victor heard from different smiths that came later all about the wonderful ships built in Zaandam.

About ten kilometers north of Amsterdam, in four different villages, were more than 50 shipyards, all surrounded by factories, which made everything that a ship could possibly need from nails to sails.

These shipyards assembled everything from merchant to whaling ships. Four of the ships currently sailing around the world had been built here once.

The whole night long as they sailed on the boat, they heard the sound of axes and saw the fires burning on the land. Lights fell on the half-finished hulls of ships that rose out of the darkness like great beasts.

The air smelled like pine shingles, tar and the dampness of the river.

They stopped in a little tavern by the river for the night to give themselves and their oarsmen some rest.

Several hours later a damp, grey dawn greeted them. Everything that had appeared so big in the dark was now masked by the fog, but as they neared this house or that boat it turned out that everything was actually very small.

“Zaandam is right ahead,” one of the oarsmen said, indicating a group of houses in the distance.

The boat drifted between the houses as if they were on a street and not on a canal. The people in the houses were slowly waking up. Here and there a fire burned in a window.

A rooster cried from a shed’s roof.

The sky grew lighter with every minute. Ropes stretched out over the canal and clothes hung from it, drying in the rays of the rising sun. Wide pants, white shirts and wool socks hung so low that they had to bend down to keep going under them.

They turned into a smaller canal where the little houses presented their backs and little outhouses to travellers.

A man sat in a boat and fished with a serious expression.

Victor peered into the man’s face and then he rose to his feet and exclaimed. “Gerrit Kist, is that you?”

The man pulled his fishing rod out of the water and only when he folded it away did he turn to see who was calling him. An expression of shock appeared on his face.

Gerrit watched a boat sail up to him in the damp grey morning. A youth stood inside it, dressed as a common workman, but there was something familiar about those clear, honest eyes and the hard, determined mouth.

Gerrit panicked. The Tsar of the Muscovites appeared out of the fog in a little boat sailing down a narrow canal. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but it really was the Tsar in front of him.

“Is that you, Victor?” he asked.

“Good morning!” the Tsar said and reached out to shake the smith’s hand.

The smith turned his surprised look at Chris. “It really is you…” he mumbled. “How nice of you to come to Holland.”

“We are here for the whole winter,” Victor told him. “We will not lay about either. We are here to learn how to build ships. First, we need to buy good instruments.”

“My friend’s widow has some. I will talk to her,” Gerrit offered, struggling to keep up with the conversation.

“I decided in Moscow that I will stop at your house,” Victor told him. His face was glowing. He had the air of someone prepared to run to a shipyard and start working right away.

“I am a poor man,” the smith said. “I can only offer a small house that is falling apart.”

Victor laughed. “I dare say they will pay me a very modest sum, so that is all I will be able to afford.”

“It pleases you to make jokes, Victor.”

Victor’s face turned grave. “No, the time for jokes is long past. We have two years to build a navy change from fools to wise men. I refuse to tolerate layabouts in my court.”

“A wise decision, Victor,” was the smith’s response.

They sailed together where a house stood with a roof that had sunk in from time. It had two windows and an extra shed on the side. Smoke rose from a tall chimney. Next to the crooked door the travellers found a little doorman where people left their shoes. It was a custom in Holland to walk around their houses only in their woolen socks.

A little old woman came out to greet the travellers, hiding her hands behind her apron.

Gerrit greeted her, adding that the foreigners were visiting from Moscow.

The house charmed Victor and he claimed the only bed in the attic for Chris, picking out a closet for himself. At night he slept in a half-sitting position and thought how much better it was that he was here alone.

He often thought about his husband, but said little about him to anyone other than Chris. He continued to write letters to Yuuri and received several in return during his stay in Zaandam. Yuuri worried that Victor was suffering many discomforts on his journey, but Victor reassured him that, on the contrary, he was very comfortable. The letters were full of tender promises and all the sweet names they called each other.

The other men, the sons of the boyars that had accompanied Victor to continue their education in Europe, had to find where to stay around Zaandam.

 

Carpenter Rensen, who had worked through an entire winter in Voronezh was on his way down the street when a youth came towards him, pushing a little wooden cart full of instruments.

Rensen’s heart beat faster in fear and he wondered where he had seen that face before.

And then it all came back to him at once – merciless snow blowing in his face, winds that chilled all the way to the bone and corpses of Russian workers lying here and there in the snow. Voronezh.

He shivered.

“Hello, Rensen!” Victor greeted him, stopping and putting his cart down.

The carpenter backed away, unsure if he should run, or stay and bow.

“I am here now. Going to learn how to build ships.” Victor smiled as if he had just told an amusing joke, but Rensen knew it was no joke. No one joked like this. “I am Victor Mikhailov while I am here, so do not give me away.”

With those words he raised his cart and walked away, leaving Rensen to stare after him in amazement. The cold wind of Voronezh swept through the carpenter once more, making him shudder a second time.

 

Many letters went back and forth between Zaandam and Moscow. Despite leaving Yuuri and Romodanovsky behind, Victor still signed orders and made laws while he was away.

He ordered Chris to keep a record of everything they saw during their travels and the man had started out writing about Amsterdam, the city on the water and how incredible it was. He wrote about the many odd things they saw like the little babies born with two heads, many of which fascinated the Tsar. He bought them and sent many back home, telling his friend that one day he hoped to organize them all into a Kunstkammer (a museum), which any person could visit if they so wished.

Later Chris’s writings turned to how pleasant the company of Europeans was, how well-mannered they were and of all the little tricks they knew that Russians had yet to learn for passing a very enjoyable night.

These writings, no doubt, intended only for his own eyes, reached the Tsar eventually and he, after questioning Chris at great length about them, hinted at them in his next letter to Yuuri. The Tsarevich’s response came soon after:

 

_The Europeans, no doubt, know more than us about running a home and I would very much like to hear what you have learned from them when you return._

 

Victor smiled at this innocence, not realizing how deeply Yuuri had blushed when he had read Victor’s letter and how much redder his cheeks turned when he wrote his reply.

 

The great ambassadors, meanwhile, travelled to The Hague where they were housed with great ceremony in the palace right next to the parliament building, where the talks were meant to take place. Unlike Amsterdam, The Hague was the seat of the government of the Dutch Republic.

“What is this?” the ambassadors asked each other. “What embassy walks out one door and into the next without so much as a procession?”

And, so, they spent the ten days that followed preparing for the grand procession that was to take place on the streets of The Hague.

When the big day came they exited the palace and, instead of turning right to go under the arch and into the parliament building, they turned left. Forty carriages followed one after another, circling the big pond in the centre of The Hague. Trumpeters walked out first, filing the quiet streets with the loud proclamation that here was the Russian embassy at last.

The whole procession spread out so much that as the front carriage rolled into the courtyard of the parliament the people in the end were just leaving the palace.

People gathered to watch from all the corners of The Hague and stared in amazement at the tall foreigners wearing thick fur coats in the middle of August. These giants from another land were unlike anything these people had ever seen and word of them travelled far and wide.

But, despite the presents, Holland declined politely and very firmly the offer of a union with Russia. Still the embassy remained in The Hague. Old traditional Russian clothing was tossed aside and they all donned light European coats, bought swords to carry at their sides and started using handkerchiefs.

 

The Tsar only managed to keep his incognito for a week. Many people who had been to Moscow lived now in Zaandam. They recognized the Tsar and told their friends about their surprise in finding him here. The rumour spread so far that little boys chased every Muscovite that came down the street, thinking this was the Tsar.

Once, after a long and tiring day a man sat down in a tavern across from Victor and stared at him with wide open eyes. He acted in a way that was so insulting that Victor became convinced that the man was about to strike him. Victor struck the man, sending him tumbling onto the ground.

“Congratulations!” someone shouted. “Young man, you have been knighted.”

Many of Victor’s actions surprised the people of the small town. They watched him in amazement, whispering to each other that this was a lie and no Tsar would really come here to work and spend the evening in a tavern drinking with common folk.

Victor was cheerful, as was his close friend Chris. Together they won over the hearts of everyone in the town in a very short time. They carried few possessions with them and dressed like workmen, except for the evenings when they donned expensive clothes and tried to learn how to be like European nobles.

But still, the evenings would find them, even when well-dressed, sitting in a tavern and questioning the people of the town about their lives.

Victor, propelled by curiosity, learned several crafts, everything that interested the Europeans of the time: from making paper to pulling teeth. He even got the chance to look through a microscope and study the anatomy of eels.

 

When the ship Victor and the children of the boyars were working on was built he climbed onto the deck and raised the ship’s flag proudly, as if it was his own.

He watched it rise to the very top and flap in the wind: a red stripe, then a white one and finally a blue one.

“Very well done, Victor,” Chris said, with just a hint of irony in his voice.

A seagull flew overhead and the wind carried the sound of its cry to them.

“We need a flag of our own,” Victor said thoughtfully.

Chris was silent. There was no use telling the Tsar anything. Once he set his mind to something, he would do it no matter what happened.

The ship building company did not think to give the Tsar the ship he helped build and it, under the name of Victor and Paul, sailed away to Java Island, a colony of the Dutch Republic.

 

That winter the Russians visiting Holland learned about one of their favourite pastimes.

The discovery came on a very cold morning. Victor woke up from the sound of excited chatter and hurried outside to see what all the commotion was about.

All of the villagers (or so it seemed to the Tsar) were out on the frozen lake.

He shouted in alarm, afraid that the ice would break under their weight and they would tumble into the cold waters of the lake, but the sound of laughter made him look closer.

Each villager, from the smallest child who could barely walk to the oldest person who could still stand on their own two feet, had tied a pair of metal blades to each shoe and shuffled (some clumsily and others with more grace) around on the frozen surface.

“Victor!” someone shouted and he recognized Kist.

He wanted to try this too and waited impatiently until someone could tie blades to his shoes. It was much harder than it seemed at first glance, but Victor laughed from joy when he fell the first time.

“Wait until Yuuri tries this!” he shouted to Chris as the man offered to help him up. Victor ignored the outstretched arm and rose on his own. “Finally I found a way to while away the time during our long cold winters!”

 

In January Victor travelled to England. He moved into a little city three versts outside London and wrote a long and excited letter describing the sight of the city as he sailed into it – the grand buildings, the bridges stretching over the water. London had not yet recovered from the Great Fire and he witnessed the greatest of cities being rebuilt after this big catastrophe.

Victor got his wish granted when the navy made some demonstrations of its skill in battle for the Russian Tsar’s amusement.

Eyes sparkling from excitement as he committed every detail to memory, the Tsar exclaimed, “I would much rather be an English admiral than the Tsar of all the Russias!”

The admiral only stared in amazement.

 

Meanwhile foreign merchants and workmen, sent by Victor, poured into Moscow through Archangelsk and Novgorod. Moscow was suddenly too small: there was no room for these new visitors.

The boyars were in an uproar. Someone spread rumours around that the Tsar had died overseas (either that he was killed, or that he had tumbled into the sea by accident) and that Celestino had found a German who looked like Victor and gave him away for the Tsar.

Romodanovsky and Yuuri did their best to silence these rumours. Romodanovsky summoned the boyars and gave big banquets, not sparing any wine. Yuuri found places for the foreign workers as best as he could while Romodanovsky sent guards to the monastery where Lilia was locked away.

It was getting more dangerous to venture out and Romodanovsky made sure Yuuri stayed within the walls of the Kremlin where he was safe. Food tasters died by the dozen and the air was full of whispers about the streltsy.

The streltsy watched, listened and whispered some more. Lilia had promised them money, some said. Lilia was right for Russia, others agreed. Rumour grew into a big ugly beast.

 

The grand embassy was failing. No one in it had a good grasp of European politics and Victor troubled Celestino with many questions, finding that he was the only person who could explain what was going on.

The Europeans cared little for fighting with the Ottoman Empire. They were prepared to sign a peace treaty with the Turks. They were much more interested in who would be the on the Spanish throne next. The closest heirs were members of the Austrian and French monarchies. This the embassy understood, but what about England and Holland? What did they have to do with any of this?

Celestino explained, as patiently as he could, that the merchants of England and Holland were very interested in the wars that broke out, since which ports would be open to the ships of which countries, and so affected trade and decided which merchants would have ships full of expensive goods. And what better way to fight a war than by letting others fight it for you?

What could Russia offer at a time like this? Victor wondered.

A lot, as Celestino explained it, by continuing the fight with the Ottoman Empire, they freed Austria to fight France.

The Tsar was furious at this explanation, but he held his anger in check and listened carefully to each word.

“This is big politique,” Celestino explained, using a word that was new to most of them. “Very big politique!”

It seemed clear to all of them that there was no further point in staying in England and, having met with Isaac Newton and several other learned men, Victor travelled back to the Continent.

In Vienna it became even more obvious that the embassy had failed in its main goal in finding a strong ally for their cause. By then Victor learned the language of diplomats and hid his thoughts behind smiles and polite words.

He found he preferred to deal with workmen rather than the slippery and lying diplomats, but kept this thought to himself.

In Venice, they all thought, they would find support, but on the morning of their planned departure a letter came from Prince Romodanovsky.

The streltsy had risen to take down Romodanovsky and kill Tsarevich Yuuri. They were tired of foreign ways destroying age old traditions. They wanted Lilia back on the throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for all the historic references in this chapter:
> 
> \- War of the Spanish Succession: officially started in 1701, when Charles II of Spain died childless and France and Austria fought for who would rule Spain next  
> \- the line about the museum is a reference to the Kunstkamera, the first museum in Russia, founded by Peter the Great (the creepy babies is a very famous exhibit there)  
> \- Peter the Great came up with the Russian flag used today, basing it off the flag of the Netherlands with the same colours, but in a different order  
> \- the Great Fire of London happened in 1666 and took out a big chunk of the city, so even by 1697 they were still rebuilding what it had destroyed  
> \- somewhere in the late 17th century people started to use microscopes to study living organisms
> 
> I think that's it...
> 
> PS I haven't forgotten about the historic smut. I already have part 1 of 2. I think I want to post both parts together as a separate fic. I just need to get far enough along in this one before I do that.


	19. The Return

Whispers passed through Europe that Yakov had returned from his exile and that Lilia was on the throne once more. Tsar Victor was dead, they all said, killed by his half-sister’s supporters.

Victor, meanwhile, forgetting everything else, rode a horse for three days and three nights, before Chris caught up with him and pulled him into a carriage. Behind the carriage Victor’s horse collapsed from exhaustion, dying in the road.

Chris watched Victor in silence.

The Tsar’s expression was grave. Victor said very little, having no interest whatsoever in meaningless conversation. He turned down offers of stopping for rest. He cared little for comforts or for his own well-being. Only one thing was important – a quick return to Moscow. Nothing else mattered anymore.

But, despite the great haste, when they got to Rawa Victor had to stop for several hours to meet with Augustus II of Poland. The meeting passed in great secret and Augustus almost persuaded Victor to stay for another few days, but the mere thought of streltsy taking the Kremlin and harming Yuuri was too much for him to bear. He gave, instead, a promise to meet with him again so that they could speak more about a union between their two countries.

 

They were a few days’ ride from Moscow and Chris and Victor stopped to change horses when a man ran in, all covered in dust and specks of dirt.

Victor turned pale. “What news?” he demanded, closing in on the man at once.

The messenger dropped to his knees. “Your Majesty –” he heard the Tsar make an impatient noise and spoke as quickly as he could. “His Grace, Prince Romodanovsky defeated the streltsy.”

“And Lilia? What about Lilia?” Victor asked.

“Her – she is still within the confines of her convent, Your Majesty.” The man lowered his head.

Chris opened his mouth to congratulate Victor on this good news, but the Tsar swept out of the room to see if their carriage was ready.

Chris had no choice but to follow.

 

At mass in the Cathedral of the Dormition Prince Romodanovsky got up in front of everyone. Every head in the church turned to look at him.

All the boyars in the church had spent the mass watching the Prince and Tsarevich Yuuri out of the corners of their eyes. They saw Romodanovsky whisper something to Yuuri and it did not escape their notice how ardently the Tsarevich prayed.

Romodanovsky protected Yuuri like a mother protects her child. When the revolt started Yuuri was locked up in his rooms and only a select few had permission to visit him. The Prince lead the army himself against the streltsy and then saw to it that everyone they took prisoner was locked away safely.

“His Majesty,” Romodanovsky began and everyone went silent in the church, “Victor Alexeyevich has graced the road to Moscow with his presence.”

The news shook the boyars. In the Tsar’s absence they had remembered the comforts of a calm and quiet life when no one was ordering them about and turning their lives inside out. Here he was once more! What ill wind brought this calamity on their poor heads?

Yuuri returned to his praying.

Some of the boyars threw him sidelong glances. Wicked tongues had spread nasty rumours about the Tsarevich and his infidelity, but everyone knew they were just lies. It was hard to be unfaithful when your husband’s uncle has you locked up. They turned, instead, to discussing the Tsarevich’s two close friends – Mila and Georgi as well as the Plisetskys – grandfather and grandson. That was no mere friendship, some whispered and tapped their noses knowingly.

Ambitious people tried to win over the sympathies of little Yuri Plisetsky, but the boy, after seeing one or two people, refused to talk to any more of them.

He was in the church now, standing next to the Tsarevich and praying. His grandfather was there too. He proved as difficult to deal with as his grandson.

The announcement made, the boyars left the mass in great haste to prepare for the Tsar’s arrival. They pulled the hated foreign clothes out of dusty old chests and tried to suggest with their entire appearance that they had dressed no other way while their Tsar was away.

 

The sun was high in the sky when a carriage entered the Kremlin courtyard, filling the air with a loud rattling noise and clouds of dust. The door opened and Victor leapt out, ready to dash inside.

Yuuri, dear, _dear_ Yuuri, was running towards him, arms spread wide and a happy smile on his face.

A moment and they caught each other, holding on as tightly as they could.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmured into his ear and, heart beating fast, he caught Yuuri’s lips with his own.

A hundred or so kisses were exchanged as more people poured into the courtyard. Carriages arrived and brought more people. Boyars, princes, foreigners brought by the Tsar, serfs, servant girls and boys, little children and old women all gathered around to greet the Tsar.

Victor ignored all of them, giving his husband his full attention. Even when he found the strength of will to break the kiss he took Yuuri’s hands and looked into his face.

Had Yuuri changed? No, he was still the same as ever. There was that depth in his eyes that spoke of loneliness. He was in clothes traditional for a Tsarevich, which Victor was determined to set right soon.

Yuuri, on his part, was also giving his husband an up and down look, taking in every detail of the man who had returned to him at last. There was a different air to Victor. A strong wind rose with the Tsar’s arrival and, for a moment, Yuuri fancied he could smell the sea and hear the call of different shores. Although dusty and crumpled from his travels, Victor’s clothes were of a fashion Yuuri had not seen before. He was in a grey coat and foreign-made boots. A handkerchief stuck out of his breast pocket. There was an elegance in the Tsar’s gestures that had not been there before. Yuuri was curious to get to know this stranger.

Yuuri’s heart beat faster. He felt Victor’s eyes sink deep into his and remembered with a deep blush where they were.

There was a big crowd here now. They tossed their hats into the air above them and shouted their hurrah at the Tsar’s return.

Victor gave them an absent look and returned his attention to Yuuri.

Everyone was waiting for what the Tsar would do, but the Tsar had forgotten about everything.

The Tsarevich caught sight of Mila and Georgi in the crowd and stepped forward. Victor was surely too tired from his journey to give the right orders right away.

“Take His Majesty’s carriage away,” Yuuri ordered and several servants ran to carry out his instructions.

Yuuri caught the eye of one of the servant girls. “Go to the kitchens and tell them the Tsar is hungry and will not be kept waiting.”

The girl bowed to the ground and dashed across the courtyard, her heels flashing behind her.

Victor watched his husband take charge, feeling his heart hammer faster in his chest.

“We will have everything ready for you soon, Your Majesty,” Yuuri promised and bowed.

Victor caught him around the waist and pulled him close. “I do not intend to stop here for long,” he said softly.

“Surely you need to rest after such a long journey!” Yuuri protested. “And eat something.”

Victor buried his nose in Yuuri’s hair. “As you command, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

Yuuri pulled away and coaxed the Tsar gently into the palace. His face was all red and he was convinced that a fire was burning upon his cheeks, but he went on, speaking like a host welcoming a guest into his house.

Victor followed without protest, nodding at everyone who bowed to him. His old irritation with everything was back. He threw a look at the carriage as the servants took it away. Barely back from his travels, he longed to be away again.

But first…

He stopped Yuuri in one of the hallways and turned him so they faced each other. They snatched another kiss, a longer one this time, away from prying eyes, in a dark shadow between windows. Yuuri held on so tightly it hurt, but Victor did not complain.

 _How I missed you!_ he thought. His hands were on Yuuri’s back, pulling him closer until his whole body was pressed against Victor’s.

Yuuri pulled his mouth away and whispered, “Come with me.”

 

Four servant girls were preparing food in the kitchen for the royal table under the watchful eye of an elderly servant. All the girls were barely sixteen years of age, while the woman watching them was so old her face resembled an aged apple.

A fifth girl came in. “I do not understand,” she said, reaching out for one of the freshly-picked apples in a dish on the table, “is His Majesty not hungry after such a long journey?”

The old woman slapped the girl’s hand away. “Do not touch that!” she barked.

“He _is_ hungry,” another girl said, “just not with _that kind_ of hunger.”

All the girls in the kitchen burst into giggles. The old lady hmph’d, but said nothing.

The giggles continued as one of the girls pulled a cake out of the oven.

The old lady grumbled under her breath. “I do not understand our Tsar. To bed a commoner and, what is worse, a foreigner!”

“But they are married!” one of the girls protested.

The old lady gave another “hmph”, before pointing out that they were not always married.

“And they love each other,” another girl added with a sigh. This was followed by sighs from the other girls.

“Careful with that, Marfa!” the old lady warned as Marfa carried a cooked swan on a big dish painted with flowers out of the room. “In love!” the old lady repeated in disgust, as if it was a bad habit she thought was best not encouraged.

Another servant girl ran in completely out of breath. “Coming! They are coming!”

The women ran around like mad, trying to get the last of the preparations over with quickly. Sharp words were shouted as several of them came dangerously close within each other.

 

Yuuri and Victor stepped into the dining hall, arm in arm, giving each other loving looks. Both were dressed differently now, both in European clothes Victor had bought while abroad.

Victor gave the order that they were not to be disturbed and, so, the servants kept everyone else out, leaving the husbands solely in the company of each other as much as bringing in new dishes allowed.

The Tsar asked Yuuri about matters the Tsarevich had only alluded to in his letters, wishing to know all the details of Yuuri’s time here in Victor’s absence. Yuuri had questions of his own for Victor.

Yuuri leaned towards Victor, taking comfort in their closeness and their time away from everyone else. When he closed his eyes, it was as if Victor had never left.

“Will you introduce him to me?” Victor asked.

“Hmm?” Yuuri opened his eyes.

Victor brushed his fingers through Yuuri’s hair with a fond smile. “The boy you picked to be our heir. Will you introduce him to me?”

“Of course.” Yuuri called a servant over and ordered her to bring Nikolai and Yuri Plisetsky.

Victor watched all this without a word. In his absence, the Tsar reflected, Yuuri had grown accustomed to a position of command.

 

Nikolai was ready when the summons came. The Tsar was back and, so, it was the duty of all his servants to be ready come to him at a moment’s notice. He got up from his chair, called his grandson to him and made all the adjustments he could to make Yuri more presentable.

The grandfather had no way of knowing that he and Yuri were the first to be summoned to the Tsar’s presence after his arrival. So much time had passed that, naturally, he had assumed that the Tsar had seen everyone else in his court and left him and his grandson for last. Hence, it was not surprising that when he walked down the halls with Yuri at his side he missed the looks everyone gave him as he passed them.

Nikolai was from an old family, so he greeted the Tsar the way his parents had greeted the Tsar’s father. It did not bother him in the slightest that the Tsar appeared to be still eating when he walked in

Yuri bowed as well and then watched the Tsar with a look that was almost hostile.

Tsar Victor wiped his fingers on a napkin, rose and walked over to them. “Are you studying anything?” he asked Yuri.

The little boy threw a look at the Tsarevich. “Geometry, French and German,” came his reply. And, knowing what would come next, added, “Je m’appelle Yuri. Je parle français.” _My name is Yuri. I speak French._ He threw another look at the Tsarevich, as if for his approval.

Yuuri was giving him an encouraging smile. For some reason this really irritated the little boy. Glaring at Victor, he added, “But it’s a waste of time. No one speaks French _or_ German!”

Victor laughed. “Well done, Yuuri!” He picked Yuri up and held him up over his head, not realizing that everyone assumed his remark was for the grandson.

Yuri screamed in frustration until Victor put him down again.

“There are many foreigners in Russia now who speak German,” Victor told him, “and some who speak French. I want all the children of the boyars to learn these languages.” He gave Yuuri a fond smile and then his eyes went to Nikolai. “I want you both to be part of my court. I will call you to me daily and,” here he grinned down at Yuri, “I will be very interested in your progress.”

“Forgive my grandson, Your Majesty –” Nikolai began, but Victor waved the apology aside.

“I need brave people who are not afraid to speak their mind by my side,” Victor told him. With another laugh, he took the hat off his head and put it on Yuri’s head and, ignoring his protests, picked him up again, this time to place him on his shoulder.

Yuuri came up to them and the breath caught in Nikolai’s throat. For a moment, the thought struck him that there was something family-like in the sight of the three people before him. He tried to shake the strange thought from his mind, but it remained there.

Victor put Yuri down again and took his husband’s hand. “I leave you for now. I expect you two to follow me to Preobrazhenskoye.”

The Tsar walked out of the room with Yuuri at his side, leaving Nikolai to stare after them in disbelief.

Yuri grumbled something under his breath.

 

The Kremlin, with its old walls and dark halls, with the people crowding in corners and exchanging whispers, with the reminder of that terrifying morning in Victor’s childhood, troubled and disgusted the Tsar. He headed for the palace in Preobrazhenskoye with a sense of relief.

Victor was alone with Yuuri in the carriage, assuming everyone else would follow soon after. Outside the sun was beginning to set. He took Yuuri’s hand in both of his.

“I will name him my heir,” he said. “You made a good choice, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s face was all doubt and fear. “How can you be sure of that?”

Pulling him closer, Victor planted a kiss on Yuuri’s temple. “Because I know.”

“I was so lonely without you,” Yuuri suddenly admitted, closing his eyes. “Promise you will not leave me behind next time.”

“I promise.”

For a while neither of them said anything. Yuuri gave a shudder and raised a handkerchief to his face.

“Are you crying?” Victor asked softly, his arms around Yuuri.

“No, I am not,” Yuuri protested, hiding his face.

Victor talked about Amsterdam, keeping Yuuri in his embrace. He described the city in great detail. He went on about the canals, the boats transporting goods. He talked about the shipyards and his work while he had been away. He spoke about a theatre he had visited and an opera he had listened to.

Yuuri’s arms wrapped around Victor and he held on tightly.

“Yuuri,” Victor whispered, cutting himself off mid-sentence.

But the carriage came to a stop before either of them could say anything. Yuuri moved to leave, but Victor blocked his way with his arm.

“I promise I will not leave you behind ever again,” Victor said and took Yuuri’s hand. He planted a kiss and they both thought back to the promise given in the middle of the night under a starlit sky.

Yuuri lowered his head. “There are days when I am convinced I will wake up in my parents’ house to find that all this had been nothing more than a dream.”

“What can I do to prove that it is otherwise?” Victor asked.

Yuuri raised Victor’s hands to his lips and kissed each finger. “This is a dream. Us marrying was a dream and leaving me in charge of Russia was a dream.” He lowered his head onto Victor’s hands.

They had a lot to say to each other, but this time words were not needed.

 

When the Tsar and Tsarevich stepped out of the carriage two more carriages had arrived. Chris came out of one and Romodanovsky – out of the other.

The Tsar and his husband were smiling happily and held hands, as if unable to let go of each other. Both Chris and Romodanovsky, who knew the two of them well, could see that something had passed between their monarch and his husband. They exchanged a look and Romodanovsky stepped forward to give his nephew a warm welcome.

Without a doubt, if Victor had arrived a week earlier, he would have acted differently. He would not have spoken amiably with his friends before retiring for the night with Yuuri. He would not have spent that night peacefully asleep.

None of the streltsy were peacefully asleep. Locked away in prisons around Moscow, they awaited their fate with a cold resignation.

 

At the first crack of dawn, a long train of carriages, horsemen, carts and all other manner of conveyances headed to Preobrazhenskoye. Generals, boyars, princes, priests – anyone who had any kind of rank – all rushed to bow to their recently returned ruler and assure him of their loyalty. No one wanted to share the fate of the streltsy.

Pushing through a crowd of people in the entrance hall of the palace, the visitor would ask the same questions: “Well? How is His Majesty?”

People would answer with a strange smile on their lips, “His Majesty is in good humour.”

The visitor would then proceed fearfully into a newly refurbished chamber where the Tsar sat with his husband at his side.

Was this really the Tsar of all the Russias? the visitor would ask themselves.

There was nothing Russian about the Tsar. A foreign kaftan made from a thin material covered his tall frame. There was delicate lace all around his neck. He was in a neat wig. Even the way he sat – with one leg under his chair – was foreign, not Russian.

The visitors would approach one by one, their beards sticking out in front of them, bowing at the waist.

“Look how long your beard is!” Victor would say by way of greeting. “They laugh at beards in Europe. Lend me your beard so that I may laugh too!”

Boyar, prince, soldier, old and young, would stand and stare in amazement, at a loss for words.

Chris would then slip in behind them and catch them as Victor and Yuuri, both armed with a pair of scissors, would walk up to the visitor and trim the beard with great care.

Victor would pour them a shot of vodka and put it in their hands with the words, “Drink to our good health for many years.”

While the visitor drank, the Tsar talked about the French and how they started the tradition of shaving beards.

“If you regret your loss,” Victor would add with a laugh, “give the order to bury your beard with you. It will reattach itself in the afterlife.”

Had the Tsar been cold or angry, he would not have frightened them as much as he did then with his laughter and his jokes. Worse still were his smiles.

The visitors all crossed themselves, convinced that either they were imagining it all, or that their dear Tsar was possessed. Afterwards they all whispered again and again that the Tsar’s soul had been swapped for someone else’s while he had been abroad.

A Polish barber worked hard at the other end of the room – soaping the pathetic remains of beards and shaving off everything until no hairs were left. Each time he finished he held up a mirror so that the boyar could see his shame – a bald chin with a childish mouth. Such shame! Shame!

They looked at one another afterwards, searching for some comfort in each other’s eyes, but it was hard to recognize anyone by their bald chins and only the clothes gave them away. Instead of bringing them comfort, this only served to further lower their spirits.

Victor walked among them and nodded in approval, taking each man’s chin with his hand and remarking that now they were fit for travel to Europe.

Travel to Europe! The words put more fear into the men than the pronouncement of a death sentence.

 

Afterwards the Tsar spent lunch in his close circle of friends – Yuuri, Chris, Celestino, Romodanovsky and Minako. She had travelled with the embassy and, by her own account, enjoyed incredible success, but what exactly the success was, she would not say.

The Tsar sat at the head of a table, frowning at his plate. The others talked merrily, as if nothing was wrong, throwing looks at him from time to time out of the corners of their eyes.

“The sting remains,” Victor grumbled and everyone went quiet. “You defeat them once, twice, a third time, but the wasp’s sting is still there. Who sent them? Who organized this?”

Romodanovsky slid his plate away, as if it could prevent him from speaking. “I asked around.”

Yuuri turned pale. Word had reached even him of Romodanovsky’s methods of asking. He did his best to suppress the trembling in his knees. He had confronted the Prince about this, but the man had only laughed and told Yuuri not to waste his time and turn his attention to something more important.

“I heard what I expected,” Romodanovsky went on.

Everyone watched him in complete silence.

Whether because he knew he had their full attention and wanted to keep it longer, or because he had an inkling of the response he would get, he paused for several seconds before finally saying, “Lilia. She sent letters and money to the streltsy through women from the monastery. It was her idea to burn the Kukuy Quarter down and to kill the Tsarevich. We lost thirty food-tasters over the summer alone.”

 

The inevitable verdict followed soon after: death. Death for every single one of the streltsy. Death to the idea of the streltsy. Henceforth there would be no such guard referred to as “streltsy”. There would still be the army with the proper military ranks, the aristocracy and the clergy remained as well, but that special place accorded to the streltsy was no more.

They and their families were all stripped of their lands and property, and sentenced to be executed. There was not even talk of exile.

The end came on a cold, grey morning, in a big square, under the walls of the Kremlin. An icy wind blew in from the north, chilling to the bone.

Crowds gathered to watch the execution. People climbed on roofs to see better. Foreign ambassadors had come too. Children, men and women, young and old, wise and foolish, all wanted to see the death of old byzantium Rus’. Carts rolled down the muddy roads, two streltsy sat in each, all in black with a candle in their hands, and stopped, forming a long line that had no visible end. The sentenced men were now among those waiting for the execution to begin.

The Tsar arrived in a carriage with Yuuri at his side. Both were pale. Both had not slept the night before and, instead, spent the night arguing. Word had got around that the Tsarevich was against the execution and pleaded with the Tsar that death be replaced with eternal exile to Siberia, but the Tsar had refused to be dissuaded from this decision.

Everyone waited for Yuuri to drop to his knees and beg, but he remained on his feet, looking away from the Tsar.

The sentenced men were led forward one by one as a record keeper read out their names and a list of their crimes.

The families of the streltsy were all there, sitting in the cart with the sentenced men, and the wives wailed loudly in despair, beating their chests as children screamed. But the streltsy themselves were calm. They accepted their death, knowing there was no hope for them.

One man handed his family his mittens and bright handkerchief so that they may keep them as mementos of him before lying down in front of the executioner.

A second man walked past the Tsar to his execution and said, “Move aside, Your Majesty. I will lie down here.”

The Tsar looked away and only the shaking of his hand gave away how angry the words had made him.

 

The execution of what Prince Romodanovsky assured everyone to be the leaders of the uprising was carried out right outside Lilia’s windows at the Novodevichy Convent.

Lilia spent the whole day on her knees in front of icons, deep in prayer, crossing herself over and over again and whispering frantically. She was convinced that she would be executed as well, but, despite executing some of her servants, no one came to interrupt her praying.

 

Terror seized the country. Rebellions sprang up from the north all the way down to Azov in the south. The army was merciless in its response, sweeping in and attacking the rebels. The end came for old traditions and when spring came the wind brought with it the smell of the Baltic Sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I simplified a few details and tweaked others. I hope you will forgive me.
> 
> A few notes on this uprising:  
> Peter the Great was in charge of the tortures and questioned the streltsy himself until they confessed their motives. (Apparently there is some argument over what these motives actually were. For a long time people were convinced that they wanted to put someone else on the throne, but I’ve also seen it stated that they had a different motive.) The executions took a long time and weren’t limited to just cutting people’s heads off. There were a lot of cruel methods for killing people that I will not get into here and the executions went on for months. Some people were hung from tree trunks that they stuck in the walls around Moscow, and a few were stuck in the walls below Sophia’s (Peter the Great’s half-sister) windows in the convent. Some of the streltsy were sent off and some were allowed to fight in the war that followed and only in the 1720s were they completely liquidated.
> 
> There are two famous paintings of this historic event: [Tsarevna Sophia by Ilya Repin](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f6/Sophia_Alekseyevna%2C_by_Ilya_Repin.jpg) and [The Morning of the Streltsy Execution by Vasily Surikov](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c7/Surikov_streltsi.jpg).
> 
> There is an explicit smut scene that happens halfway through this chapter. You can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619921/chapters/33851904).


	20. Preparations for War

A warm breeze blew from the south. It played with the sails of newly built ships in Voronezh. From the city to the Don River, the Voronezh River was strewn with ships.

Work continued on the shipyard day and night: everyone scrambled to complete the last ship – _The Fortress_. It bobbed on the surface as boats came up to it, bringing barrels full of gunpowder and food. The captain shouted at the sailors as they dragged everything onboard.

The main work was complete. The navy was on the water and ready to set off. The only ship left was _The Fortress_ , waiting for extra detailed work to be done on it. In three days’ time they were to raise the Admiral’s flag above it.

 

On the shore, in one of several houses set aside for the Tsar’s men, several people sat with one of the ambassadors sent to Karlovitz on the Danube to negotiate a peace treaty with the Turks. Apart from them, ambassadors from the Holy Roman Empire, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Republic of Venice had also come. All of them were interested in signing a peace treaty.

Chris, now General Christophe Yakovlevich (the patronymic given to him by Victor himself), questioned the ambassador, feeling dissatisfied with the responses he got. He was in his Preobrazhensky uniform that suited him so well, a scarf tied winningly around his waist. There was nothing accidental about the way he dressed – he was all too aware of his good looks and never lost an opportunity to show them off all the more. It was said that he had conquered more than two dozen hearts while in Europe.

“I signed a truce,” the ambassador said, “with the Turkish ambassadors, promising that we will not take up arms against one another for a time. I could not get them to agree to more.” He saw the expression on Chris’s face and pressed on, “Europe is in a big mess right now and, for all I know, they may pull the rest of the world into it. The Spanish King is old and any day now he will die childless. The French king wants to put his grandson on the French throne and has already married him off. He keeps him near him in Paris, waiting for the coronation. The Austrian Emperor, on his part, wants his son on the Spanish throne.”

“We know all this,” Chris pointed out.

“If I may continue, Christophe Yakovlevich,” the ambassador said with a polite lowering of his head. “Now the big argument between France and England is being decided. If the French claim to Spain wins, then the French and Spanish navy will rule over all the seas. If the Austrians take Spain, then the English navy can defeat the French navy without any help. They want the Austrians to end their war with the Turks so they can be free to fight France. The Turks lost a lot of land and want time to rest and regather their forces. Even Azov is not worth fighting over it.”

Chris smirked. “If the Turks are as weak as you say, why did you not sign a peace treaty with them instead of a truce?”

There were two other people in the room – General Celestino and Admiral Minako. She had earned the title of Admiral of the Tsar’s Navy. Both listened to every word and both exchanged sarcastic smiles at this question.

“Did you forget about the forty thousand men we have waiting in Ukraine? Or maybe you forgot about the navy? A truce!” Chris gave a tired sigh as if he was the old and experienced ambassador and the man before him was an inexperienced youth.

The ambassador removed his glasses and gave Chris a long cool look as if to say that his high position of power and his good looks could not intimidate him.

“We did not sign a peace treaty because while everyone else led peace talks in secret from one another the Turks refused to even talk to us. We were put in a poor house and kept under guard at all hours of the day. If my close friend had not been there, then we would have signed nothing at all.”

Chris listened to the ambassador’s tale of fur coats, caviar and alcohol sent, of tobacco and coffee received in return, of the many daring things the Turks had supposedly said and the hinted threats.

“Perhaps I am too foolish to understand everything,” the ambassador said, “but I think a truce is better than war.”

There was nothing to say to that. Chris knew what Victor’s new was. Convinced that the future lay in the north, the Tsar was making preparations to declare war on Sweden. This meant that there would be no more fighting for the Black Sea.

“I must speak with His Majesty. Where is the Tsar?” the ambassador asked.

The two generals and the admiral smiled and exchanged a look.

It was Chris who answered. “Wherever the Tsarevich is.”

Strange and confusing rumours reached into Europe as far as the place where the negotiations were taking place and he knew not what to make of them or of this reply.

 

Their Majesties were both at that moment up on _The Fortress_ , working away. The days when the sight of bare arms and working muscles caught their attention were long past and now came the time when two people worked as one person, understanding at a single glance what the other required.

One held while the other cut, or two pairs of arms would grip a particularly heavy log and carry it together. The work was hard, straining every muscle and covering all brows with sweat, but every evening they returned to the house set aside for them in Voronezh with a smile.

They put most of _The Fortress_ together and it was a favourite joke among the workers in the shipyard as well as the citizens of Voronezh that the next Tsar would be the boat itself.

That day the ambassador found them both hammering away side by side.

Seeing him coming towards them, Victor stopped and Yuuri did the same.

“You there,” Victor called to someone, “bring us water.”

A little boy ran past the ambassador as the man negotiated his way carefully to His Majesty’s side.

Victor reached out and helped him up to the empty place beside him. “Hello, Ambassador! What news from Europe?”

“Your Majesty, I –”

The boy returned with a cup of water. To the ambassador’s great surprise, the Tsar handed it to Tsarevich Yuuri, letting him drink first.

 

Victor could see by the expression on the ambassador’s face that whatever news he brought they would not be good. His eyes were on Yuuri as he drank and he thought instead of the fleet they were both building.

Yuuri finished drinking just as another cup was brought for Victor. While the Tsar drank Yuuri dabbed at his brow with a white handkerchief he kept in his sleeve.

Victor downed the contents of the cup and smiled at Yuuri. “Thank you.” Then he gave the ambassador a look. “Come. We will talk inside.” He offered Yuuri his arm and they walked to the house together.

The servants in the house, noticing the Tsar approach, set the table, putting the best foods of the region on little round plates on a table covered with a clean white tablecloth.

Victor nodded at everyone in the room and sat down to eat. Yuuri joined him.

After some hesitation, the ambassador sat down as well and repeated his news. This time he made his report in a different tone. He talked about the duty of Christians to fight for the holy land and how God himself did not allow them to sign a peace treaty with the Turks for this very reason, how they could continue down the Black Sea and push the Ottoman Empire back, claiming all of those lands for themselves.

Yuuri set his fork down and listened.

Victor ate calmly and gave no hint of what he thought of this duty, or of anything else the ambassador said.

The ambassador finished speaking and rose to bow repeatedly.

Several people spoke up at once. Minako – about the Black Sea, Celestino – about the Baltic one. Chris added a few comments of his own in an amused tone of voice.

“Chris,” Victor said and everyone went silent, “sit the ambassador down.”

There was a pause as Chris persuaded the ambassador to sit down again and everyone waited for Victor to speak.

When Victor was in Europe, he had discovered to his surprise that Christian duty was no longer considered by Europeans a suitable reason for a war, that it worried them less who controlled the holy lands and more who had the strongest navy or the best ports for trade.

He reclined in his chair and studied everyone in the room. “Several of our merchants came to speak with me yesterday. Arkhangelsk is a village in the middle of nowhere, not a port. The English and Dutch merchants buy our goods for next to nothing. Our goods rot as these merchants walk by and laugh. Forests! Everyone needs forests desperately and we have most of them, but we are the one bowing and asking them to do us the honour of buying them from us. No, the Black Sea will give us none of this. We need our own ships on the waters of the Baltic Sea.”

He finished and a contemplative silence descended on them.

Fighting with Turks was no easy task, but they were used to wars with them by now, but fighting for the Baltic Sea? Fighting against the Swedes? Getting deeper into Europe’s mess?

Victor met Yuuri’s eyes and an understanding passed between them.

“We will go sign a peace treaty with the Turks,” Victor announced. “We will have more than fur coats with us this time.”

The generals and the admiral all exchanged glances with a chuckle.

 

Ships sailed down the murky waters of the Don River, their sails full of a warm breeze. Eighteen big ships were at the front, followed by 66 smaller ships and boats of all kinds. From up on the high decks of the ships it was easy to see the wide steppe on both sides and the lakes in the distance. Flocks of birds flew above their heads, heading north.

A beautiful sunset spread across the sky. The cannons on the admiral’s ship fired. A ringing filled the air. Sails were folded away and anchors dropped. Fires were lit on the darkening shores and shouts rang out.

Victor stood on the deck of _Apostle Victor_ , the ship where he served as Commodore Victor, as a firework was shot up into the air, signaling that dinner was about to start and inviting everyone to come join the Tsar.

He raised his eyes and watched Yuuri climb down with great care. To Victor’s great delight, he took to life at sea from the first day and now his eyes sparkled with the excitement of adventure.

Yuuri jumped down and talked excitedly of the view from the crow’s nest.

 _This is true happiness,_ Victor thought, watching Yuuri speak. _How did I not realize this before?_

“Are you listening to me?” Yuuri asked with a smile.

“Of course I am,” Victor assured him.

There was no doubt in his mind that this was true happiness – the boat rushing on, pushed by the wind in its sails, the sailors running around at his orders, he and Yuuri up in the crow’s nest, looking through the telescope at a church or town in the distance, and Yuuri whispering how beautiful the land was, filling Victor with pride as if he had somehow made it thus.

He thought he knew Yuuri well, but he learned more still about him in those days.

They arrived at dinner together to find many people already gathered at the table. Maps were pinned to the walls, covered in Yuuri’s neat writing, reminding Victor of several nights spent sitting up with official papers and arguing about matters of state.

 

Chris watched the Tsar arrive at dinner with his consort. He had been uneasy about them travelling together, convinced that it was a bad idea, but seeing them together he struggled to imagine something that was more natural than those two doing everything as one person.

The generals, captains and boyars rose from their seats to greet their Tsar and Chris got up with a smile. He had visited several courts in Europe and here was Victor’s – bobbing up and down on the sea, pushed along by the wind, built from wood by his own hands.

The days that followed were pleasant. Several times they left their ships to have banquets on the shores, in the tall grass under trees. To everyone’s surprise, Victor caught turtles and then cooked them for everyone else.

On starry nights when the air was warm and inviting Victor would drape his jacket over the grass and lie down on it with Yuuri curled up at his side.

On a hot day at the end of May the Azov Fortress appeared on the horizon.

 

While one of the generals measured the Don River further ahead and Victor went with Yuuri to look at the fortresses at Azov and Taganrog, the Khan’s embassy arrived on horseback. They set up their tents and sent a messenger to ask if the Tsar would accept presents and a bow from the Khan. The embassy was told that the Tsar was in Moscow and that his representative was here – Admiral Minako.

She met with the embassy on her ship, sitting on a foldout chair with a proud look on her face. They sat on a carpet laid out for them and talked about the truce, complimented the ships and made small talk.

It was obvious that they had been sent ahead to assess the situation. Minako thanked them with cold politeness when they brought out their presents – weapons covered in silver and cheap stones and said very little in return.

In the morning they were all gone.

 

The Don River was too shallow for them to keep going and every day the water level only dropped. Their only hope now was that a strong wind would fill the river with seawater.

Hot days followed, pushing everyone to hide away from the scorching sun. For days there was barely even a breeze. The ships stood with their sails folded away, motionless in the water.

The order came to drop all of the ballast. Barrels with provisions and gunpowder were sent onwards to Taganrog. The ships became lighter. The water level continued to fall.

It was a hot day in June when one of the captains spotted a big grey cloud approaching at great speed. He returned to where everyone had gathered for lunch and said, “A storm is coming.”

Everyone rose from the table and rushed out to take a look.

Clouds rushed across the sky. Still the sun burned. The flags hung unmoving. A shout went up and everyone scrambled to secure all the sails and ships as best as they could.

The big grey cloud was coving half the sky now. The waters darkened. Lightning flashed and the wind whistled in the rigging. Masts creaked as a stronger wind swept in and tore off anything that was not tied down properly. The wind threw the water around, splashing the ships. Lightning split the sky and thunder boomed, terrifying everyone. Several people crossed themselves.

Victor and Yuuri were at the bow, clinging on as tightly as they could, while the sea raised and lowered it like a child playing with a toy. The wind had taken their hats out to sea.

“This is nothing!” one of the captains shouted. “The real storm will start soon.”

Victor’s eyes were on Yuuri and he felt his heart tighten painfully in his chest. “Give me your hand,” he shouted and grabbed it before Yuuri could understand what he had said.

Lightning struck two sailors, killing them instantly. The storm tore through the ropes, broke several masts, tossed the smaller boats out onto the shore and sunk others.

Like all bad things, the storm passed, but it left behind a good strong wind.

The water level rose fast. One by one the small ships led the bigger ones out into the Sea of Azov. They all gathered outside Taganrog and dropped anchor once more.

Here they worked hard to fix the damage done by the storm. A month passed in repairs and lessons for the children of the noblemen who were among those on the ships and who had never seen the sea before.

One of the captains yelled and cursed at them, forcing them to jump in the water with all their clothes on, or to repeat their lessons over and over again. Yuuri joined the lessons and enjoyed them more than everyone else.

Finally the repairs were complete and _The Fortress_ raised its sails and, accompanied by all of the other ships, went out into the open sea. The minarets of Taman gleamed up ahead as they passed near Kerch and dropped anchor within sight of it.

The walls of Kerch were old. Here and there the tall towers were falling apart. There were no forts, no bastions. Four ships stood near the short: the Turks had panicked, caught off guard by the sight of a sea full of sails and cannon smoke, and sent for an admiral.

 

The Pasha of Kerch stared at the ships out in the Sea of Azov in amazement. He had sent people to ask what such a big caravan of ships was doing her and was now waiting impatiently for them to return.

A month ago the Khan’s spies had reported that the Tsar’s fleet was in a terrible state with no cannons on board and that it would never even make it out into the Sea of Azov. Yet, here it was now.

“Who believed those spies?” the Pasha mumbled. He tried to count the number of ships, but the window was small and he could barely see anything out of it.

Now he would have to write a letter to the Sultan and who knew what his response would be? The Pasha tried not to think about all the other officials who had lost their heads for less.

The messengers returned and the Pasha pulled away from the window.

“The Muscovite admiral sends her greetings and a bow. She says she is escorting an ambassador to the Sultan. We told her that they may not travel by sea and that they must go by land through Crimea like everyone else. The admiral replied, “If you will not let him through, then the entire fleet will accompany him all the way to Constantinople”.”

The Pasha sent two more people. These were more cunning than the messengers sent the first time.

“We pity you, Muscovites,” they said, “you have no knowledge of the treachery of our Black Sea. In dire circumstances it turns the hearts of all humans on it black. That is how it got its name. Heed our advice and go by land.”

Admiral Minako tossed her hair over her shoulder. “How frightening!”

A very tall man who stood nearby burst out laughing and the other Russians followed suit.

What could they do when an entire fleet was going back and forth under their walls, staging a mock battle before the Pasha’s eyes? What could anyone do when there were such daring unwanted guests on their doorstep?

The Pasha did his best to drag out these negotiations, praying that something would persuade them to leave.

 

A small boat approached the ship of the Turkish admiral. Minako climbed up on the ship, followed by two men dressed as simple Dutch sailors. (These were none other than Victor and Chris. Yuuri had remained on the ship, watching everything through a telescope.)

The Turkish admiral and Minako greeted each other with a great deal of respect.

Two chairs were brought out and the admirals sat down. The ship’s cook brought a tray of sweets, a coffee pot and cups that were just bigger than a thimble. The admirals asked about the health of each other’s rulers and each assured the other that they were in good health.

“We do not keep a big fleet here in Kerch,” the Turkish admiral told Minako, trying and failing to sound as if a big fleet was nothing out of the ordinary. “We have no one to fear here, but in the Sea of Marmara we have many mighty ships with cannons that fire stone balls.”

Minako downed her coffee with a shrug. “We do not use stone balls. We prefer cast iron ones instead. Some are as heavy as thirty pounds. When they strike enemy ships, they go all the way through.” She took one of the sweets with two fingers and bit into it.

The Turkish admiral raised his eyebrows. “We were surprised to find sailors from England and Holland – both friends of the Ottoman Empire – in the Tsar’s navy.”

Minako swallowed the rest of the sweet and picked up another one. “People serve those who pay the most.” She grinned. “England and Holland have a well-established trade with Muscovy. It is better to live in peace with the Tsar rather than challenge him to a war. Muscovy is very rich, like no other country in the world.” She put the next sweet into her mouth

“Where did the Tsar get so many ships, Admiral?”

Minako poured herself more coffee. “The Muscovites built them themselves in two years, Admiral.”

The Turkish admiral shook his head.

While the admirals were thus engaged, the two sailors who had come with him chatted with the Turkish sailors, making them laugh. From time to time, the Turkish admiral would throw curious looks at the two tall youths. Somehow, they persuaded the Turkish sailors to show them around on the deck and even take them below decks.

“This coffee is very delicious,” Minako told him. “May I go into the city and buy some?”

The Turkish admiral saw through this ruse right away. _As if I believe that you care for coffee,_ he thought. _I know what you will do as soon as you appear on the shore._ Determined to not let a single one of the Tsar’s men (be they Russian or not) get close enough to get a good look at Kerch’s defences, he offered, “I can sell you some myself. How much do you need?”

“How much can I get for 70 chervonets?” Minako asked in return, playing with the coins in her pocket.

The Turkish admiral sent his cook to fetch bags of coffee and a pair of scales. “This coffee is one of the best grown on the Yava.” He said once the cook reappeared. He opened one of the bags and pulled his fingers through the coffee beans. “Dear Admiral,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “I can see you are a good person. I bear you no ill will. Take my advice and convince the Muscovites not to travel by sea. The waters near the shores are very treacherous. They are shallow and the bottom of the sea is strewn with big rocks. We fear them ourselves.”

Minako smiled as if he had told her a joke. “Why go along the shores when we can go out into the open sea?”

She paid for the coffee and they said their farewells.

Right before climbing back down to her boat she turned around and shouted, “Victor Alexeyev!”

“Here!” a voice called out.

The two sailors rushed back, reaching the boat before their admiral and picking up the oars with determined expressions on their faces. Minako joined them and turned around to wave her hat in a last goodbye.

The Turkish admiral watched them leave. Was it his imagination or did one of the sailors wink at him?

 

The delay was over and the Russian fleet was allowed to enter the Black Sea. They returned to Taganrog to fetch an interpreter and, accompanied by four Turkish war ships, sailed down the Straight of Kerch into the Black Sea and continued along the south shores of Crimea.

Out in the Black Sea they met with a good strong wind and, despite the orders from the Turkish ships that they all stay together, the Admiral’s ship raised all its sails and slipped away to Constantinople, leaving all the other ships behind as if they were standing still.

A panic spread over Constantinople. The Sultan made them wait until the Turkish ships caught up with them and then made them wait some more until one of his captains would arrive and advise him how best to act – to declare war on these unwanted guests, or to sign a peace treaty.

Meanwhile, all the ships apart from _The Fortress_ , went back the way they had come and Victor returned with Yuuri to Moscow, leaving the peace talks to the ambassador on board _The Fortress_.

 

 

 

Fourteen carriages, each one led by four horses – that was how the Swedish embassy appeared in Moscow. The carriages rode down a street and through a square to the walls of the Kremlin. Their way was lined with soldiers on both sides. Each soldier was in a short grey kaftan, a triangular hat and armed with a rifle. The Swedes stared out the windows of their carriage at this new army with grave expressions on their faces.

As they neared their destination they passed cannonballs arranged in neat piles and cannons aimed at the sky, each with four men standing around it.

Celestino sat on a horse, his red cape flapping in the wind, right in front of the Red Entrance, as if guarding it from enemies. When the carriages stopped the General raised his hand and the cannons fired, filling the air with smoke.

The ambassadors climbed out of the carriages. At the request of the guard, they submitted their swords and were granted entry into the palace.

One hundred of the Tsar’s soldiers bore the gifts from the Swedish king, Charles XII, – silver basins, chalices, jugs, and a big portrait, set in an elaborate wooden frame, of the Swedish king himself.

The Swedish ambassadors removed their hats as they entered the main chamber.

Inside boyars sat on benches all along the four walls, high-ranking guests, officials and even rich merchants were there with them. Most of them were in European clothes. In the far corner of the chamber, under a ceiling painted with knights, animals and birds all in bright colours, the Tsar san on a throne made from walrus ivory and silver. Yuuri sat next to him. Both of them were dressed in simple grey kaftans. A silver crown gleamed on Yuuri’s head, but the Tsar’s head was bare. Two men stood on either sides of them – one with a gold bowl filled with water and one holding a towel. Both men were from noble Russian families.

The ambassadors approached hesitantly. Victor placed his fingers in the water in the bowl without looking. The other man wiped them dry for him and the ambassadors were allowed to come up to the Tsar’s hand. The same ceremony was repeated for the Tsarevich.

Victor rose and asked in Russian, “Is Charles, King of the Swedes, in good health?”

The ambassadors, after this was translated to them, replied that, with God’s help, His Majesty is in good health, indeed. But what of the health of the Tsar of the Great, the Small, the White and so on?

The boyars listened to every word as it was translated for everyone in the room, looking for the smallest hint in the insult. That word, there, was it right? Were they giving the Tsar’s full title as was proper, or did they miss a part of it?

“In good health, thank you,” Victor responded.

The ambassadors presented the peace treaty. Victor took it and handed it, without even glancing at it, to his first minister. The first minister, also without looking at it, announced that the visit was over.

The ambassadors backed out of the room, bowing several times before they reached the door.

They had expected that the purpose of their visit would be discussed here, that their 6-month wait would end at last, and that Victor would kiss the Bible, swearing that he would not go to war with Sweden.

Another week went by before the ambassadors were summoned again and the ambassadors were told that the Tsar had already sworn to be loyal to the King’s father and now needs a similar assurance of the King’s loyalty.

The ambassadors argued, but the Muscovites would not be convinced. Worse, they told the ambassadors that if they chose to stay in Moscow, they would have to pay for their stay themselves. The ambassadors waited for a few more weeks, selling whatever they could just so they had something to eat, but gave up in the end.

They saw the Tsar once more and he returned the peace treaty with the same ceremony.

 

On a grey morning a carriage arrived at one of the back doors of the Preobrazhensky Palace. Two ambassadors stepped out and Chris led them in. Victor greeted them with a serious expression on his face. Yuuri sat in the room with him, writing something.

The ambassadors produced a treaty and read its conditions aloud. By signing it, the Tsar agreed to a secret alliance with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Denmark and Saxony against Sweden and that, as soon as a peace treaty was signed with the Turks, he would attack Sweden.

Victor threw a look at Chris and then at Yuuri and finally picked up a pen and signed the paper.

One of the men bowed. “Your Majesty, tomorrow I leave for Warsaw. I promise to return as soon as I can with Augustus’ signature.”

Chris saw them out and Victor paced the room. It was too small to pace, but he made an attempt nonetheless.

Yuuri raised his eyes and watched him, but said nothing. In that moment, more than ever before, the future felt to him like a path cut through a wild forest. Who knew what lay on the other side? Who knew at which point an animal would run out and attack?

 

Moscow filled with a ringing unheard of for many years. Rumours claimed that the patriarch had given the bell ringers a thousand rubles and fifty barrels of his best beer.

Every single bell in every tower, in every church rang on and on.

Moscow filled with fog from the people and horses. The earth quaked from the cold and trees bent under the snow.

The Tsar decreed that from now on everyone would count years not from the day of creation of the world, but from eight days after Christ’s birth and that the new year would start not on the first of September, but on the first of January, starting with this year, which he told them was 1700.

The Tsar also decreed that people wish each other a happy new year and that the rich decorate their houses with branches from pine trees, that people fire cannons, rifles and fireworks and light fires in celebration of this great day.

The Tsar himself went around the homes of the noblest families and drank and ate and celebrated with all of them. Wild stories went around about the Tsar’s madness, but – odder still – were the stories that claimed that the Tsarevich, when drunk, outdid everyone else in his mad acts.

First he drank you to the end of your wits, they said, and then he ordered you to dance with him and competed against you. No one won, of course.

“What?” others asked. “That serious and shy Tsarevich?”

“Serious and shy? Not at all. You know what they say – in a quite pond is where the demons lie.”

The more religious people did their best to hide away, wondering why their Tsar had gone mad. They prayed that God would restore his reason soon.

“The end of the world!” some whispered. “The end of the world is upon us!” and they would cross themselves repeatedly and spend all day in prayer.

The madness and whispers of a coming war were enough to convince anyone that the end of the world was really coming.

There was not enough money for a war and, so, the Tsar was bringing in new taxes, including a tax on beards, for all those who refused to shave them off.

 

One morning when the Tsar locked himself away in his chamber, complaining about a headache and Yuuri was going over all the letters that had come for the Tsar in the past week, a servant girl led two women into the room where the Tsarevich was working.

He raised his eyes and a smile illuminated his face. “Mila!” he exclaimed and got up.

She bowed and turned around to show off her dress. “Look! The latest fashion in Paris! What do you think?”

Yuuri laughed. “I think every girl will want something similar soon.” He noticed Mila’s companion and gave her a curious look.

She was graceful, dark-haired and dark-eyed with a fire in her gaze.

“Forgive me,” Mila curtseyed, “I have quite forgotten myself. How is the health of Your Majesty?”

“Oh please! You know that ceremonies are not important to me!” Yuuri protested. He saw her expression and gave in. “I am well.”

“And how is His Majesty, the Tsar?” Mila went on.

“Well, apart from a headache.”

“Your Majesty, allow me to introduce – Sara Crispino.” Mila turned and spoke in Italian, a language Yuuri rarely ever heard, except from Celestino. She smiled back at Yuuri. “Paris!” Mila waved her hand dismissively while Sara curtseyed. “Your Majesty needs to hear about Rome and Venice!”

Yuuri asked them both to sit, ordered a light refreshment to be brought and listened to Mila’s story.

She had left for Europe as soon as Victor had returned to Moscow. After travelling all the way to Paris and spending several enjoyable months there she heard enough about Italy to wish to see it for herself. That was where she found Sara.

A love story followed that brought a smile to Yuuri’s face. It was a tale of days spent in the hot Italian sun, pining away for a love that Mila was sure would not be returned. And then – a chance word dropped here, a hint there and Mila found herself confessing in the ruins bathed in moonlight.

“And here you both are,” Yuuri concluded. “Italy sounds wonderful. I fear that Moscow will seem too dreary after it.”

“Ah, but,” Mila said, a note of triumph in her voice, “you have yet to hear the best part!”

Yuuri noticed Victor opening the door, but Mila got too carried away to notice.

“Sara is an architect!”

 

Ivan the Great, the big bell in the tower, rang over Moscow. War! War was starting!

The time had come for them to face a great and powerful enemy: Sweden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I just started writing this fic one of the first notes I wrote down for this AU was something like “power couple building ships together” and now 20 chapters later I’m finally here! (Also one more chapter to go!!)
> 
> Sara and Mila need their own fic, because I think there's a very interesting story that happens here. I just figured that putting the whole version into this fic would be distracting from the main plot. One day *eyes list of ideas* one day...
> 
> Also, due to popular demand, I wrote two smut scenes for this fic. In case you didn't see them, they're both [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619921/chapters/33787251) and are slightly explicit.
> 
> Some notes:  
> Constantinople was later renamed to Istanbul. I also thought that a map of the area would be helpful, so hopefully my sticking it in halfway through the chapter is okay. Sorry I patched bits of google maps together. Apparently finding a map with all the cities mentioned in this chapter marked on it, is tough, since some of them are small. Sorry I gave up before putting Istanbul in. It's further down south on the other side of the Black Sea.
> 
> It’s probably obvious by this point, but in this AU Peter the Apostle gets to be Victor the Apostle (mostly because Peter the Great was named after Peter the Apostle, so I wanted to keep that and also because that way St. Petersburg can be St. Victorsburg).
> 
> In the off chance that a history expert is reading this fic: yes, I am aware that by this point Franz Lefort died.


	21. St. Victorsburg

Another war – another series of battles lost and won. The enemy is getting close. The enemy is here. The enemy won. Retreat!

Victor set out with his army blindly, without looking or thinking.

The new war was making all heads spin. That Russia was taking on an opponent like Sweden (even with other countries allied with them) was a terrifying enough thought to begin with.

Losses followed losses, but Victor managed to move up north, captured a fortress on the Neva River and then continued along the river.

 

Tsarevich Yuuri learned firsthand about the hardships of war: when people all around you are dying while you fight to survive, when there is barely any food for men or horses.

The nights were spent pouring over maps in an attempt to make plans for the next day and the days were spent in watching those plans go wrong in different ways.

Still it was better than staying behind, unable to help in any way, passing the days in fear that any day could bring terrible news. Yuuri was determined to avoid that at all cost, no matter how many hardships he would have to bear.

They even took little Yuri with them. Victor wanted to keep him close to teach him about war. Yuri was barely nine years old.

Nikolai was left behind in Moscow and Yuuri did his best to send him news of Yuri as often as he could. He knew all too well how painful a long silence was.

The boy learned fast. He was quick on his feet too. Sometimes in the evenings he would persuade either Yuuri or one of the generals to give him fencing lessons. Once he even fought Minako. (She had winked and fought with one arm folded behind her back.)

Both Yuris were extremely fond of each other and it was so obvious to everyone that people in the army whispered about children and someone even tried to start a rumour about secret children, but they could not find anyone to believe that.

One cold morning Yuuri woke up (he always slept at Victor’s side in their tent) to find that little Yuri had slipped in under the blanket beside him during the night. Touched by this show of affection, he pulled the boy closer before falling asleep once more.

Morning dawned and Yuuri woke a second time. He opened his eyes and saw Yuri sit up sharply and move away. He opened his mouth to speak and Yuuri could see the mix of fear and embarrassment on his face.

Only then did Yuuri remember how the boy shook when he had slipped in next to him in the night.

 _He must have had a bad dream,_ Yuuri thought. He tried to smile reassuringly as his mind raced, trying to think of something suitable to say, but no words came to mind.

He heard Victor stir behind him. The Tsar was awake.

Yuuri caught Yuri by the hand, knowing that as soon as Yuri realized that Victor was awake he would run away.

“Good morning, m– oh!” Victor chuckled. “Good morning, Yuri! What news?”

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Yuri pulled his hand free and bowed. “I have no news.” He turned and dashed away.

Forgetting he was only in his nightshirt, Yuuri slipped out of the tent after him, not troubling to explain anything to Victor.

By the time Yuuri found him Yuri was sitting in his tent, his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He raised his eyes, but seeing Yuuri enter, he turned away from him.

Yuuri sat down beside him and said nothing.

What was Yuuri supposed to do? Afraid that reaching out for the boy would only make things worse, he sat still and waited for Yuri to say something, even if it was just a demand for Yuuri to leave him alone.

“I had a terrible nightmare last night,” Yuri said. “I saw my parents…” He struggled to continue, but could not get a single word out.

Yuuri needed no more words: he understood everything perfectly. Hei put his arms around Yuri and pulled him close. He felt Yuri stiffen, but, contrary to what he expected, Yuri did not push him away.

“It was improper for me to come like that,” Yuri said and Yuuri felt something sharp drop into his heart. “I will not do it again.”

“On the contrary,” another voice cut in, “I wish for you to share our tent with us from now on.”

They pulled apart and saw Victor standing in front of them. He was half-dressed and his hair was in disarray, reminding Yuuri of his own state of undress. A blush crept up to Yuuri’s cheeks, but he made no move to go and get dressed.

Victor walked over to Yuri and beamed down at him. The boy was too big now to be easily picked up, but Victor looked ready to try nonetheless. “What do you say to that?” he asked.

Yuri opened his mouth, looked at Yuuri and nodded.

“Excellent!” Victor exclaimed. “Now, I need to borrow this,” he lifted a blanket with a flourish and threw it around Yuuri’s shoulders, pulling him close. “I will not allow my husband to walk around wearing next to nothing.”

Yuuri felt his cheeks burn, but he stepped out of Victor’s embrace to put his arms around Yuri once more. Victor threw his arms around both of them and held on.

For a moment that stretched out forever they forgot about everyone else.

Someone called out and Victor released them. Throwing a look at both of them, he rushed out of the tent. Yuuri followed him out.

They still had a war to fight.

 

Yuuri walked through the camp, lost deep in his thoughts. He had set out to go find Yuri, but his thoughts took him elsewhere. He had dreamt of his rose garden that night and the memory of it returned to him during his walk. He thought of Victor’s stories about tulips in Amsterdam and…

“Look out!” a voice shouted.

Startled out of his thoughts, Yuuri raised his head just as someone ran at him and pushed him to the ground.

A cannon boomed and dirt flew up into the air.

Someone was keeping the Tsarevich pinned down to the ground. “Really, I –” he protested, wriggled free and raised himself on his knees and elbows.

Yuri’s dirty face was glaring at him. “Are you out of your mind?” he demanded. “What would the Tsar do if something were to happen to you?”

“What if something were to happen to _you_?” Yuuri shot back.

The sound of a cannonball flying through the air made them lower their heads, but it fell somewhere far from where they were lying in the dirt.

“My life matters little,” Yuri said. “I am expendable.”

“Expendable?” Yuuri protested. “But what about –” The words froze on his lips. Of everyone Yuri was the only person who did not realize why Victor brought him to this war. Perhaps, Yuuri thought, it was too odd an idea to occur to Yuri.

Yuri grew here in the middle of a war, among foreign generals and common soldiers, at the Tsar’s side, absorbing knowledge like a sponge, not realizing what Fate held in store for him, while all around him everyone waited for a formal announcement of who the next heir would be.

But Victor’s mind was on other matters.

 

The Tsar stood upon a beach, amid the waves and contemplated the cold waters of the Gulf of Finland in silence.

“I will build my city here,” he said at last.

“May I remind Your Majesty that the Swedes are on the other side of this gulf?” Minako asked. She had a feeling that Victor would not be persuaded to change his mind, but she made an attempt nonetheless. “The very same Swedes,” she helpfully supplied in case he needed a reminder, “we are still fighting?”

All Victor had talked about the whole time they moved along the Neva was how much he wanted to build a new city to live in, instead of dirty old Moscow. Inspired by the many fine cities he had seen in Europe, Victor wanted something of his own that would be as good as all of them.

Victor turned away from the sea and looked at his subjects. “I need no reminder of that.”

“But this is not land!” Chris protested. “This is a swamp!” He pointed at a pine tree. “See this mark there, Your Majesty? This is how high the water rises.” The mark was higher up than even the Tsar himself. “This is a city for fish, not for people.”

The Tsar smiled. “Your house will stand where that tree is growing.”

They continued to protest. It was a dead land, a swamp, not good for anything and so far up north too! Worse still: it was cut off from the rest of the country. To place a simple city here was pure madness, but Victor continued to imply that it would be a capital to replace Moscow, which was even worse.

Afterwards they heard what Victor’s much-loved Europe thought about this idea. “Having a capital on the edge of a country is akin to having a heart in the smallest finger on your hand – the tiniest wound could prove fatal.”

Finding no support for his plans, Victor turned to see where Yuuri was. Would Yuuri also try his best to dissuade Victor from his plans?

The Tsarevich stood, absorbed in a conversation with a messenger as little Yuri stood by his side and listened.

Finishing his conversation, Yuuri hurried over to join Victor, a letter clutched in his fingers. “I have here,” he said once he reached Victor’s side, “a letter from a friend in England.” He gave Victor a warm smile. “The English are already calling you an emperor.”

“All hail His Imperial Majesty!” Chris said in a half-joking tone of voice.

Everyone around Victor bowed, but not in the old, Russian way. No, these were bows like the Europeans gave their monarchs when granted the honour to look upon them.

There was a smile on Victor’s face. “Emperor?” He turned away to give the waters of the Neva River another thoughtful look. “Perhaps…”

 

The days in Moscow were dull and uneventful. Many people left. Many were still serving as soldiers as the war raged on. Where before there were people wandering around, looking for something to do, now the streets and courtyards were empty – all those people were all in mandatory military service. 

Having run out of metal for his cannons, Victor had ordered that all the church bells be taken down and melted to be used for cannons and now no bells rang out in Moscow. No bells called the Muscovites to mass and a heavy silence hung over the city.

Word got around that the Tsar was building a new city and had no plans to return to Moscow. He was building a new capital, feeling dissatisfied with the current one. Everyone was sent up north to help build it, to clear forests for what would become squares, or streets lined with houses. All the best was sent to the new city, leaving Moscow neglected.

Moss covered the walls of the Kremlin. Birds made nests in the gaps between the stones and all manner of animals wandered within its walls, as if it was a farm and not a royal palace. Never had the Kremlin looked as abandoned as it did then.

Was it right to ignore one city in favour of another?

St. Victorsburg.

No city would have sprung up here on its own, not without people sent up here against their will to live here, to build their houses here and to set up shops here.

Ships came through the Baltic Sea and into the Neva River, bearing goods. Arkhangelsk was closed for trade, sending all trade to St. Victorsburg instead.

On a cold, grey morning Victor sat on the grass outside his newly built palace (one people would later call his house, or even cabin, because of how little the log house resembled an actual palace) and watched the Neva roll past him.

Yuuri joined him without a word.

For a while both were silent.

“This is a true paradise,” Victor whispered. “Smell that sea air! I always felt cooped up, locked away in Moscow, but not here.”

Yuuri reached out and took Victor’s hand in his.

“I saw Sara’s plans for the city. Mila found a really talented architect.”

“She did,” Yuuri agreed.

A lot of thought and care went into planning the city. Victor let his generals fight without him, so he could concentrate all his efforts on the city and get it to his liking.

There was a short pause. A ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover and fell onto the waters of the river before them.

For the first time in several years Victor thought again of his first visits to the Kukuy Quarter. He remembered the sight of Yuuri watering geraniums in the window and smiled. It was a small, soft smile, but Yuuri noticed it and moved closer.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“We need a garden,” Victor said and nodded at the opposite side of the river. “We can plant it there. I will pick out trees and we will buy statues to put on the paths.”

“Yes, of course!” The idea captured Yuuri’s imagination and he talked about roses that could be planted in the garden and the fireworks they could have. They could even have feasts out in the open air, with guests from around the world!

Victor leaned forward and caught Yuuri’s lips in a kiss, cutting his words off. Yuuri responded, placing his hands on Victor’s shoulders.

A seagull cried out overhead, startling both of them. They pulled apart and then moved forward again to press their foreheads together.

“Do you ever regret marrying me?” Victor asked. “You had your peace in the Kukuy Quarter, but since marrying me your life was in danger every day, from those damned streltsy to this war with Sweden.”

Yuuri placed his hands on Victor’s knees, moving his forehead away from that of his husband. “No matter what happens, I will never regret marrying you,” he promised.

The Tsar chuckled. “Be careful what promises you make.”

“I only promise as much as I can give,” Yuuri said simply. He closed his eyes and leaned in for another kiss as Victor trailed his fingers through Yuuri’s hair.

There was a lot of work to do. There was an entire city to build. There were new laws to pass. There was still a war to fight. But in that moment they both forgot about everything else. That moment was just for them.

 

***

 

It was a warm day at the end of May when everyone spilled out onto the streets of St. Victorsburg. People from around the world came to celebrate the city’s three hundredth anniversary. Music played and people sang and danced right there in the middle of the crowds.

The city had changed a lot over those three hundred years. Where there had once been a swamp and a forest, there was now a city of stone. Bridges stretched over the Neva and grand imperial buildings sprang up along the streets. Boats sped down the canals under the bridges, taking tourists around. A wind covered the surface of the Neva River with little waves, as if the dark, cold waters were shivering on that bright morning.

The tall spire on top of the Victor and Paul cathedral gleamed in the bright May sunshine. That day, like on so many other days, it was full of tourists. A tour guide was telling them about the Russian Tsars who were buried in the cathedral.

“Here we have Victor the First,” the woman said, moving to stand in front of a white tomb covered in medals, golden imperial eagles and a big golden cross. The tomb was surrounded by a short metal fence. A gold plaque on the fence marked the grave as that belonging to “Victor I Great”. Bouquets of fresh white lilies surrounded the tomb and a bronze bust of the monarch stood on the other side, giving the visitors a stern look.

“He is the first ruling Tsar to be interred here,” the guide went on. “His consort, Tsarevich Yuuri is buried by his side.” She gestured at another white marble tomb. This one wasn’t as decorated as the first one and merely had a gold cross on top of it. “He only survived his husband by one day.” She gave the tourists a sad smile. “Some people believe he was killed by his grief, although scholars insist this wasn’t the case. I’m sure that most of you have seen the movie that they recently made about the two of them.” She paused and gave them a slight shake of the head that showed what she thought of this movie.

“Now over here we have the tomb of Yuri the First.” She moved around the cathedral, talking about each of the tombs and the monarchs they held.

The tourists snapped photos of the tombs, most of them gathering around Victor’s tomb. One of the tourists even got a photo of themselves in front of the tomb. Two people stood a little to the side, waiting patiently for everyone to finish taking pictures and leave.

When they finally had the place to themselves one of them leaned against the metal fence and gave the tomb of Victor the Great a wistful smile. His companion stood by his side, his eyes also on the tomb of the great monarch.

“Every time I come here I get this odd feeling,” the first man whispered.

“Hmm,” the second man nodded.

“I learned a lot about Victor while growing up. People really idolize him and I know he’s done a lot for Russia, but…” he gave a soft chuckle, “I always admired Tsarevich Yuuri more, to be honest.”

The second man stared at the Tsarevich’s grave in silence.

The tour group shuffled out of the cathedral and for a while it was completely silent.

Many people stopped here and talked over the graves of the Tsar and his consort. Many visitors liked to air their ideas in front of the Tsar, as if daring him to rise and contradict them.

These two visitors were different. They didn’t ask questions like “do you think he was ever really happy?” out loud. To them the question wouldn’t have even occurred.

The second person placed his hand over the first person’s hand. “Yes,” he suddenly whispered.

The first person turned and gave him a look of surprise. “Yes, what?”

“Yes,” the second person said again. “I will.”

“Oh.” The first person lowered his eyes. “And you don’t worry you will ever regret it? You know what I’m like.”

“I will never regret marrying you,” he promised.

There was the sound of a soft chuckle. “Be careful what promises you make, Yuuri.”

“I only promise as much as I can give, Victor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is curious [here is a picture of Peter the Great’s tomb](https://www.flickr.com/photos/115120419@N08/15203567714/in/album-72157649266280126/).
> 
> I made no mention of Victor having a mustache, but I confess that I keep imagining him with a mustache like Peter the Great had. You’re welcome for that mental image.
> 
> This started out as a half-idea that grew into a bigger one and really I was writing this while waiting for the voting for the next fic to end. When I realized that this would be more than that I almost panicked, because I needed a place where I could stop, otherwise I would have to write about Tsar Victor’s whole life. Hopefully this ending is okay. And I also hope that with this epilogue it doesn’t mean that I have to put “major character death” in the tags or warnings.  
> Thank you for reading, commenting and leaving kudos! I have no idea how many people made it to the end, but thank you for sticking around if you did!
> 
> And for anyone wondering what’s next – I have a couple of one shots to write and I want to try to make progress on my other wips and then… *whispers* Tessa and Scott AU


End file.
